Last night I did not sleep well. I slept the sleep of one missing a bed lump.
When I was a child, and frightened, my Mom used to climb into my bed and just stay there until I fell asleep. She was my bed lump -- the night time companion who comforts by their mere presence as a breathing and friendly body on the other side of the bed. Bed lumps are beings for whom we have affection, and in whose presence we feel safe and trusting. Bed lumps need not express anything, say anything, do anything. Their divine mission is to simply be the warm mound in the blankets near us, the touchstone, that which grounds us merely by assuring us through their regular night-time breathing that they are there and we are not alone.
Generally I enjoy being single, or in my case, divorced. I like the easy sway of days in which I do not have to report my whereabouts. I like the quiet. I even love it. It has been a bit of time that I have been without even a bed lump, which has not caused me an instant of fretting.
But last night as I stretched out in the darkness, my body seemed by memory to curl into "spoon shape", but there was no one there to spoon. Yet all the impulses were there.
How odd it is that our bodies recall company even when our minds are not focused there.
I am not sure what, if anything, I am going to do about this. One cannot invite someone over to be a bed lump. There is all this other "stuff" that goes with it, as the role cannot help but expand into deeper zones. Soon along comes the Venus and Mars stuff.
I may need to get a dog.