bunk bed

We buy her a bunk bed. There is an old man who lives north of here who builds them. He has built hundreds of bunk beds, he says. She wants one (she really really wants one) and the layering of sleeping children seems like a logical solution for this little room. Her father calls the old man who builds bunk beds, and the old man builds us one. The old man then drives south to our house, carries the bed up the stairs in pieces, and then builds it again. The yellow pine wood looks like honey against the pine needle green paint of the walls. Most nights, she climbs the ladder, a lanky girl of 6, and flops onto her mattress, shifting and sighing before eventually sleeping. Some nights, she is afraid to be alone waaaaaaay up there beneath the dark ceiling and her cold comforter. And so, risking a kick to the leg or head or hip, she slides along the wall of the bottom bunk to be beside her two-year-old brother. With gentleness, she pulls the blanket over her belly, smiles as she sinks onto a pillow, and closes her eyes. Soon, she is silent and sleeping, calm and happy to be close to the breath and skin of kin.