Noone will ever guess, is magical. It changes shape and form and everything around it. Last night it closed in on itself and turned a canoe. Fat black waves slapped against its hull but it endured. Cold, hard and unrelenting.
One forgettable June day it looked like a coffin, no jokes. Everyone would've laughed at me. But the body lent it credence. The four posters made over it like protective arms. This bed has intent, imagine that.
Other days it just lies there. Pretending it's ordinary, pretending it does only what it's meant to do. Be a bed. On those days thumping fists, heels dug in and soaking faces cannot elicit an answer. "I'm a bed," it rolls its eyes, "what did you expect?"
Yet yesterday as I approached it, only a door between us, I thought I heard an engine rev. I tip toed without a sound and then started running faster than I knew I could. I kicked the door down and screamed "Take me with you!". The silence didn't resound, it ricocheted. Off the four posts, grazed my shoulder and bounced out of the room taking the words with it. "I'm not magical," it laughs, "that's not petrol you smell and I am not talking to you. Beds don't talk. People are saying you're crazy. Stop it."
So I lay down and sank slowly into it. Into its big rumbling belly. That was the last night.
Today in its place lies a duffel bag bursting at its seams. I look into it. Nuts and bolts and wooden planks - it's the magic bed like I've never seen it before. Vulnerable. "It happens to the best of us," it says in a chorus of thin, smaller voices.
Yes, this is a magic bed. Because everyone knows that the most powerful magic is the most unobtrusive. It doesn't make a production of itself. It just leaves in the conciousness the conviction that something has changed.
"Good luck finding out," it's saying as I zip the bag.