I don't make my bed every morning, sometimes I just pull the rumpled covers up and call it a day, sometimes I don't even bother to do that. But when I take the time to really make the bed, I love to do it this way, all the covers come off and then I grab two corners of a sheet, raise my arms. flip my wrists, and I find for a few brief seconds I'm mesmerized by the grace and beauty of the sheet falling through the air.
I can remember going into my parents' room as a child and making their bed. I seem to recall that I often decided they needed different blankets and pillows on the bed - choosing from the linen collection based on how the colors and patterns looked together, rearranging pillows just so. I'm not entirely sure how my mom felt about the redecorating eye of a child, but she always said thank you. The girls at my job in Chicago made their own beds for the most part, but occasionally if I had the time on "linen wash day" I would take the clean sheets upstairs and make their beds. I knew that at the end of their long days of school and sports and clubs and homework and chores that a made bed was a small gift, and it's one I loved to offer.
In those seconds as the sheets fly high I see hopes and dreams caught up in that brief billow of air.