Because we lived in a small house I believe I slept in a crib until I was at least four. The crib was in my parent’s home in Coghlan, Buenos Aires. There is a conflicting memory in my mind that places me in that crib while copying the cover of Llanero Solitario (The Lone Ranger) comic book. Perhaps I may have been even older.

After that I was moved to some sort of sofa in the living room. A few years later my father fixed up a room upstairs (supposed to be for a live-in maid) and I finally had my own bed.

I cannot remember ever having a bed with a headboard. Rosemary complained of this in our Athlone house. We had to place many pillows on the two windows that were behind us that face the north side of our garden. We both painfully bumped our heads in the process.

When we were about to move to our new little home in Kitsilano we decided to splurge on a very good Stickley queen-sized bed at Jordan’s Interiors. It has a headboard!

We all know that Dickinson was not writing about a bed with a headboard in the poem bellow. It was about death and the grave. I will ignore that so I can illustrate the blog with a photograph that I took of Katheryn in the best room of the former Marble Arch Hotel.

Ample make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this ground. 
Emily Dickinson

How happy is the little stone
 Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
 A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
 I took my power in my hand
 I find my feet have further goals
 I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
Red Blaze 
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
 We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone! 
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red 
Me-come! My dazzled face  
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/03/i-left-them-in-ground-emily-dickinson.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/01/i-felt-my-life-with-both-my-hands.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/currer-bell-emily-dickinson-charlotte.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/and-zero-at-bone-with-dirks-of-melody.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/05/charm-invests-her-face.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/i-could-not-see-to-see.html 
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/blonde-assasin-passes-on.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2012/12/you-almost-bathed-your-tongue.html