Whose bed do I remember? How weird; such an innocent little question, but it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I remember rooms; houses, especially. But, I never really think of beds. I remember sharing a bed with my brother through most of my childhood.

I think the reason that I don't think of beds, is because of that. My father would come into our room, not every night, but many, many nights. The things that he would do...

NO. I don't think of beds. I literally spin in my bed so much, that, although I have a boyfriend, I have my own bed.

April {sc29_16@hotmail.com}

i guess you could call it a bed, it was where we slept with pillows and all...

the bed was in the small gym at school, among 50 other beds belonging to people staying the night to play in the annual "soccer marathon" our "bed" was one of the nicer ones, we snagged a big crash mat before the everyone else arrived.

anyway, the bed was composed of one, maybe two or three sleeping bags, one on the bottom, and one partially on top. we had one pillow, two at times when i grabbed someone elses. none of that mattered, i would have slept on a bed of concrete if i could just be with her again.

people tell me that i slept a lot, but i felt like i was awake most of the time. staring at the wall behind me, listening to her breathe, perfectly content in every way.

i guess it wasnt the cleanest bed, probably due to the fact that we both got up and played soccer a number of times during the 24 hour period of its existance. that didnt matter either - who i was with did matter.

i'll never forget that bed, or the girl i shared it with for a nite.

spy {spyder@paranoia.com}

This is easy -- my girlfriend's bed at school. It was the first one we ever slept in together, partly because ours is a long distance relationship, and partly because her parents are very old-fashioned.

I flew to her school for a long weekend without them every knowing, and she and I spent most of that weekend in the bottom bunk of her room, her roommate ejected. By the time I left, the bed had taken on several of our smells.

Her bed embodies her daintiness. We have to be so careful with the sheets, because they're luxurious and expensive, and they refuses to take them off, even for me.

We never sleep well. Never seeing each other creates a need to spend as much time awake as possible with each other. We're always sleep-deprived by the time I leave.

Greg Lindsay {greg@babelfish.net}

The best bed I had, wasn't.

My new apartment wasn't furnished like I thought it would be, and until I got my first pay check, I couldn't afford a bed.

I slept on the wood floor. Within my grasp was everything that was important: A stereo, a Powerbook, letters from friends and a lamp to which to read them. I couldn't ask for anything more, and was thankful that they were all on the same plane as I was. My room was simple and uncomplicated. My room was better then.

Luke {lukeseem@stardot.com}

The last strange bed I was in was at a friend's house. Her sister had moved out years ago and left the bed as a guest accomodation. The impression of her that I picked up was totally asynchronous with the bed; she seemed rugged, tall, and almost raunchy, while the bed was a tiny, frilly handcrafted thing. I got the feeling that the bed was nobody- that its memory had faded even from the previous owner's memory. It didn't even fit in the house well, and just seemed placeless. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was drifting through this bed just like I've been drifting through university-owned beds at school every few months. Anyway, neither that bed nor any others now have been steeped in my essence for long enough to be properly called a permanent bed.

peter

I remember my uncle's bed, the one he slept in growing up. While visiting my grandparents it was my bed and my favorite.

After enless drives through the back roads of Michigan and the interstate in Indiana, we would arrive late. It was always so late I'd already slept several hours when we finally arrived.

We would kiss our hellos and chat about the drive. I'd marvel about the hour and how my grandparents had waited up like they always did. And then it was time for bed.

Every time it was the same, and this is why I loved it: The covers were turned back, the pillow was puffed, the headboard grand. Above it all hung a portrait of my uncle, painted by my grandmother in the 50's.

It was like climbing into winter, bone-chilling. The covers were of the heaviest cotton. The spread was white and pilled. And the mattress luxiourious, from another time.

I always stayed up a bit as I adjusted to the crush of the sheets. My breathing changed. And I relaxed into sleep. I felt safe. Safer than I've ever felt anywhere to date.

As of last month, both my grandparents have passed away and I don't know what happened to the bed. I miss them and the bed they made for me.

mike f. {mikef@sfo.com}

I've had many beds, in many states and a couple different countries. I liked my bunkbed. I had the choice between top or bottom. The waterbed was fun while it lasted.

I love to sleep. I love to sleep with others. One lover's bed wasn't better or worse than another's. They all had different ideas of comfort. Like Erica, whose bed was eighty years old, and had enough blankets for the National Guard. Or Beth, who had one worn blanket and one clean white sheet.

There's been many beds, and many partners. I've loved every second of all of them.

matt

One of the first memories I have is of the beds in my grandmother's house. When my parents would be out late, she would babysit me and I would sleep over her house. I can hear my mother telling my grandmother not to let me stay up too late. "She's only 3 years old..." But I can still remember sitting in a pink room with two identical pink beds - one for me, one for my grandmother - eating shrimp cocktail and watching Johnny Carson. She died when I was 5. I'm 17 now, and that bed is in my room, still pink, and still my favorite place to be.

Kathy