Pillow Talk

There are some people you can't imagine sharing a bed with. There are others you only dream of sharing a bed with. And there are those you are forced or destined to share your bed with.

But then there are those select few that you actually choose to share your bed with. 

As a child I didn't even like to share a bed with my sister, and it really creeped me out to sleep with my Mom. Yeah, I had issues. But that's another blog entry, not this one.

As a young mother, I loved to share my bed and cuddle in the mornings with my kids. That was a magical time. 

As partners, husband and wife, lovers, I love to share a bed. I am a snuggler. I like to cuddle. I like the security in knowing that I am not alone. I need to keep my feet warm and I love the pillow talk. 

And that brings me to John. 

I am captivated, infatuated, addicted, lulled into submission, drowning in the sound of his voice, drunk on his words and well, totally into him. John can eat crackers in my bed anytime. I might even warm HIS feet.

Read this and maybe you will see why:

"In the gray time after the light has come and before the sun has risen, the Row seems to hang suspended out of time in a silvery light. The street lights go out, and the weeds are a brilliant green. The corrugated iron of the canneries glows with the pearly lucency of platinum or old pewter. No automobiles are running then. The street is silent of progress and business. And the rush and drag of the waves can be heard as they splash in among the piles of the canneries. It is a time of great peace, a deserted time, a little era of rest.

Cats drip over the fences and slither like syrup over the ground to look for fish heads. Silent early morning dogs parade majestically picking and choosing judiciously whereon to pee. The sea gulls come flapping in to sit on the cannery roofs to await the day of refuse - they sit on the roof peaks shoulder to shoulder...The air is cool and fresh. In the back gardens the gophers push up the morning mounds of fresh damp earth and they creep out and drag flowers into their holes.

It is the hour of the pearl...the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself."

Excerpt from Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck.

That's John. We've been sharing a bed.  And pillow talk. 

And then my eyes fall shut and his words go silent and slumber wins.

Until that magical hour of the pearl, when I stretch across cold sheets to the other side of the bed, only to roll back to the lonely silence of my own pillow.

And I lay there for a moment. And I daydream of my night dreams.

And I wish for this new day to pass quickly and the night to return soon, bringing with it the soothing cantor of the master wordsmith.

The lullaby of pillow talk. The conversation of lovers.