I learned to read, at 4, in my grandma’s bed. I wish I remembered the titles. I do remember the 11 x 14 size of one book, the softness and color of the pages, the thin spines on all the books, the magic of stringing letter sounds into words and then tales. It made me want to see other worlds and to tell stories. I remember Grandma’s patience and generosity, her bodily weariness. I connected books with resting and tenderness, curiosity and travel, home and comfort. Excitement, too. Vitality. This is a bed I slept in for a month or so in a hostel in Barcelona. I was 24 and living one of the dreams that beds and reading inspired.
Marianne Maili 