It is just a twin bed. Not only that, it was a free twin bed I picked up at a garage sale some 9 years ago. I painted it every night after work for weeks. When I messed up part of it, I stripped it and started again. Every stroke of the brush was a celebration of my son, my son’s room, the love I have for my son. I was ignited by my love for him to paint him a bed and a matching dresser. Something unique, only for him.
Months ago he told me he had grown out of his furniture. He was sensitive to my feelings, telling me he still really liked it, but he felt he was too old for it now. I agreed, saying we would decorate his room however he wanted.
But tonight, after delivering his bed and chest to someone I don’t know, someone that does not know the history of my long nights of painting a bed for my son, my only beloved son. I feel so sad, almost betrayed. Will she take care of them? Will the kids enjoy it? Will it brightened up their rooms or will they ever even noticed the patterns, the colors? But if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. I had it, I painted it, it was his for 9 years. It is my lesson in letting go.
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