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The bedding troupe is as cruel, maybe left over from the Civil War. A dim scratchy dark cover missing of blossoms, featheriness, or delicate quality is my covering. A little hand towel moved up under my neck fills in as a pad, the concrete divider despite me underpins my good faith. I lay sideways, close my eyes and rest trying to adjust to this condition and stay in bed such a spot. A slim dark cover, brother cell phone list and a sewn together sheet looking like a tremendous cushion case finishes the group in this uncovered spot. The agreeable home I regularly stay in bed is far away from here, yet I too far to even think about climbing into. Rather, I carry it to mind, sinking down into delicate pads, the sound of the sea and rest.

To muffle the stunning clamor, I let my dreaming take me to already cheerful Mother's Days. Yearning for home, my creative mind takes me to a bath loaded up with heated water, Epsom salts and fundamental oils. My kids are deferential, calm, sneaking around the house as I sit in my belly like room. Candles consume, instrumental music plays. I appreciate this, realizing at any second a dimpled little hand will thump daintily on the entryway, and a sweet child kid voice will say, "Mother, breakfast is practically prepared!" Closing my eyes, appreciation for sweet minutes as these streams and I am ready to nap.