I learned to read, at 4, in my grandma’s bed. I do not remember the titles. I do remember the 11 x 14 size of one book, the softness and color of the pages, the thin spines, the magic of stringing letter sounds into words and then stories. It made me want to see other worlds and to tell stories. I remember Grandma’s patience and generosity in spirit, her weariness in body. 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.