I fold the duvet the way my mother ironed my father’s shirts.You could tell she wanted him to love her for it. Bed is my nirvana—softand feathery as a push-up bra I fluff up the pillows—recall last night’s catastrophe. That’s why I don’t want to remember dreams. They can be disturbing.Wakefulness is the planet I count on,my mother blood. Now that my father is deadmy mother no longer irons … Continue reading Making the Bed by Dale Champlin