From The House of Edward

A Chore Neglected

Sometimes one neglects a common, everyday activity and that simple neglect turns out to have a decided effect on the course of one’s morning. For me that morning belonged to this very day and the chore neglected was the making up of my bed. I left this particular duty until after breakfast during which I observed a slightly misty, rather scowly morning squatting like gloom itself outside my cottage window. A dull grey grumpy morning that seemed most determined to cast a dull grey grumpy light through each windowpane, washing dull grey grumpy shadows over every room. Just as I was beginning to wonder if my mood was going to succumb to the same fate as those shadows, I passed by the bedroom door and spied it. Sitting there serene and stately, fluffy, warm, and only slightly rumpled, with fat, fat pillows and feather down blankets. The Unmade Bed. I could almost hear it calling my name in downy whispers. I looked around. Only Edward returned my gaze, and I knew what he would advise without having to ask. I looked at the telephone. So easy, really, to remove the little cord that controls the sound. For just an hour. Perhaps two. Gently setting down my coffee, I padded down the hallway and silently slipped between the crisp linen sheets. The wind chimes sang soft lullabies and the rest of the world was quiet. Edward, sensing his fondest wishes answered, landed lightly at my feet, placed his big wise head atop my ankles and heaved a restful, happy sigh. I could barely hold my eyes open lying as I was in the arms of such white comfort. The sing song, sing song, of the wind chimes began to recede away and away as I wafted down a twilight corridor holding on to the gentle hand of repose. Somewhere a mauve door closed and I was asleep. And I regret nothing.

Painting above by Vittore Carpaccio