In Memoriam: Bunk Beds
By Meghann Donohue
My parents bought my sister and I
Bunk beds.
As if sharing a room was not enough,
We were now sharing a bed.
My sister made me read the directions
Out loud
And when I said that no child
Under the age of 5
Was allowed to sleep on the top bunk
We both rushed out to my mother,
Weeding in the front lawn,
Pulling large stalks out by the roots
“I can’t sleep up there,” my sister wailed,
Instantly, irrevocably and irreversibly
Making the decision for us both.
Because really, we were both scared
Of the height and the ladder
Like scaling some small mountain
And resting at the top
Perched over the rest of our world.
For the next seven years,
I was the one who scaled that ladder,
The mountain I was hiking inevitably getting smaller.
But the bed wasn’t just a mountain.
It was a fishing boat, complete with an assistant
Our younger brother who would hang below
And hook the stuffed animals
So we could haul them up
Yelling and pulling at our stick rods,
Like we had seen on TV.
It was a reading corner, where I was the constant
Reader
Whispering words in the dark
Passing the book down through wooden slats
So we could share the picture
Never noticing the silent steady breathing
From below
My sister lulled to sleep
By the sound of my voice
It was our wrestling mat
With my sister jumping on me at first light
Peeling my eyelids open
Lifting the underside of my mattress
Off the bed
And letting it fall back down with a
Bang
Me, perfecting a move where I tossed her
Across the room
Onto the mattress
Until she would hit her head on the wooden frame
And cry as if I had tried to murder her
When it came time to say goodbye,
When I was allowed to be in my own room
With my own bed
And my own space
I said goodbye to my sister in a million ways
Recording books on tape in my voice
Sleeping in her room – still – on holidays
Hiding her notes to say I had missed her
But I never did say goodbye to those beds
Wooden slats and frames and a ladder
On a mountain of rubbish