A year ago, I gave away my bed. I needed less clutter, in my home and in my mind, which to me meant sleeping on a cot for three months until I bought a futon and tatami mat. The cot was so narrow that one night I rolled right off it, in the middle of a dream in which I struggled to open a stubborn attic door that abruptly gave way. I went crashing to the floor, in the dream and in real life.

Still, what I missed most about my old bed wasn’t its size or comfort. What I missed most was the daily routine of making it, that satisfying, soothing morning ritual of smoothing the bottom sheet and resecuring any elasticized corners that might have released their hold on the mattress during the night and slunk into themselves. Next, I’d shake out the flat sheet, letting it drift downward, onto the mattress. Even my cat, who is annoyed by most household chores and the noises or disruptions they create, enjoyed the ritual. Granted, his enjoyment came from interrupting the bed-making — tail twitching dangerously, he pounced while the sheet was still hovering, then attacked it with startling ferocity, all teeth and claws.