Ira's bed never roamed when she was awake.  Try as she might to catch it, it could always tell when she was really asleep and only then did it wander from her bedroom.  Everyday she woke up in a different place. 

The first time this happened, she was amazed to find herself at the bottom of the ocean.  The bed, of course, made sure to surround itself with air.  She could not explore as she would have liked to, but she was content enough to sit on her bed and watch the sea life go about its carefree way.  After a while, the soothing sound of the ocean quiet and the peaceful display of merry fish lulled her back to sleep.  She woke up in her room again, sad to say goodbye but also relieved to be home and not stuck under the sea all day.  How would she have explained that to her mom? 

Oddly enough, the bed never lost its spring.  Despite the many years she had it, it had not a tear, nor any signs of wear.  Though, the same could not be said for Ira, who aged just the same as everyone else.  In time she grew feeble and weak. Her muscles stayed stiff all day and would not slacken.  Her legs rebelled against her brain when she tried to walk, making every step an effort. 

Yet, she could still explore.  Her bed took her to Paris, Rome, Berlin.  Through the pastures of Irish green to lighthouse beacon gleams.  She had comfort, excitement, and beauty in and around her bed. 

When the time came to pass it on, she found no takers at all.  Her children had forgotten the magic in the folded sheets, their lives too busy for such silly dreams.  Her grandchildren also had no claim, too preoccupied in front of screens. 

She sighed a heavy sigh after she had said her goodbyes.  She would be gone and her bed in the dump.  But maybe she could save it, she thought as she wiped a tear from her eye. 

“There’s one last place, I’d like us to go.”

“Rest your head, and soon we’ll be there,” a whisper said across the sheets.

She climbed in bed, curled up in the covers.  Snuggled the pillow, and closed her eyes. 

Dust upon the window, dust upon the shelves.  Dust on the carpet and on books as well.  Time collects, it ages and decays.  But not all things age, not all things rust.  Not everything is covered in dust.