Fannie Dubois, Gone Carter

I’m Fanny Dubois now. Fanny Carter is concretely a person of the past.

I miss my bed the most, our bed, Jack’s and mine. It was the perfect bed. I have slept on firmer matresses, with down comforters and fat pillows. But it is my queen-sized, aging mattress with the hand-me-down headboard that still holds my heart. I miss the large spheres on the posts at the corners; I loved how they fit perfectly in my palm as I walked by. I’d press my palm wholly to the orb and somehow felt more grounded as a result. Over time, I rubbed away the finish with this ritual.

I loved it when the navy blue cotton sheets were clean; they were coolest at bedtime, unhindered by lint and fuzz that collected over time. But when Jack traveled, I preferred the sheets with a week’s worth of sleep on them. Jack’s pillow held his scent. It wasn’t cologne, because he never wore any. It was just the essence of him and his pomade. Actually, when we met, when we were dating, and even when we first married, I didn’t like the smell. But over time, the musk and oil became a comfort to my soul – a “mentholatum” for my stuffy heart – especially when he was gone.

I miss lying next to Jack with our white stitched quilt over us. It was barely wide enough to cover the sides of the mattress when the bed was made, let alone when we were in it. But it’s soft and bumpy texture made me happy. It was light, so we didn’t sweat, but had enough weight to hold us there together. I miss everything about that bed.

Jack died six years ago, and here I lie in a strange hotel bed with a new husband on our wedding night. Lance is wonderful, and I love him. But this bed is not ours, and I don’t yet like how he smells.