it doesn't matter that my bed was beneath windows frosted inside with ice, or that i slept on the floor for a year, or that we heated our house with a woodstove, or that i woke up every morning to the call to prayer, or that my bunk bed was labelled with my name on an index card or that i spent years in a guest room. the point is that i slept, whether or not i had a bed, whether or not my bed was in the same town as my family, and regardless of which country i lay down in. the moral of the story is that i slept. i slept, ate, read, bathed occasionally. i was a child.
it's so much simpler than we ever imagined.
