Yesterday turned out to be a flurry, mostly centered around the arrival of the much-anticipated new mattress. I deep-washed bedding, heat-treated pillows in the dryer, massacred (I hope) those little dust mites that give me such terrible allergies: got everything ready for the stately installation of the new bed, which arrived late afternoon and which Tom and I lugged upstairs when he got home from work.

Ah, the magic of packaging! We unwound the shrink-wrap and watched the mattress swell before our eyes, like one of those flat lozenges that transforms into a fat sponge as soon as it gets wet. From a compressed roll it became a full-sized bed, twice as thick as our previous mattress. I know I'm unduly impressed by modern conveniences, but this was very exciting.

Now, after having spent my first night on the magical new mattress, I continue to ooh and aah. No hip pain in the wee hours! No hobbling stiffness in the morning! When Tom came to bed, I never noticed because the mattress didn't jounce and pop. Now all we need is a bed frame, and we will be like real Americans.

But enough of this mattress advertising. Let us move on to less ironic matters, such as yesterday's sunrise, a glory of purple and gold.  

I heard bad news yesterday about Covid and Harmony--people I like, who I've known for years, now critically ill and hospitalized; no vaccinations; foolishness and endangerment in public places; what I've dreaded and knew could come true in that town.

Forgive my shallow mattress crush. I do know the real.

I loved the helpless people I loved. 

That's what a little boy will do, 

but a grown man will turn it all 

to sadness and let it soak his heart 

until he wrings it out and dreams 

about another kind of love, 

some afternoon beneath a tree. 

[from Maurice Manning, "Sad and Alone"]