Roughly translated as
sleep bed. The straw filled
antique was given to my father from his
great aunt… or so mom thinks.

The soft, bloated cushion of a bench
attempts to mold to its inhabitant.
But its fabric is stiff, unable to fully comply,
forcing the person to hover in a state of suspense,

The wooden frame creaks at the
weight it is forced to endure.
For hundreds of years it has so generously
comforted the home in which it resides.

The family pulls it open once a year,
stretching out its brittle limbs,
engulfed in the musky smell of history,
fantasizing what it was like to sleep upon it.

They wipe away dust,
airing out the wretched smell of the past,
and re-polish its wood, as if to make it
presentable for the twenty-first century.

A reminder of the family who were not as
fortunate as we are today.
The times were harder then,
the weight of their stress heavier.

Our ancestors worked their fingers to the bone
so that we may live a life of comfort.
Folding it closed, like an unfinished book
its stories are a comfy reminder of a life once lived.