I Am Grateful For My Bed

I’m grateful for my bed, happy it’s not the rack on the USS Trippe, where I slept during the war, in its tiny berthing compartment, that I shared with 21 shipmates. I prayed each night in Viet Nam, wishing I was having a nightmare, hoping I would wake up in my own bedroom, back home. None of us woke up the next morning from the nightmare.

 

When our ship visited Karachi, Pakistan,  I witnessed a truck drive slowly down a Karachi street, along a park. The truck stopped. A man got out of the passenger side and began kicking the people who were sleeping. I asked our driver why. He told me to watch. If the truck person kicked someone and they moved, he walked to the next person. If the person he kicked did not move, he called for the driver, who got out of the truck and helped toss the body into the truck. My heart sank. They were picking up the people who died without a bed, on the street, during the night.

 

I am grateful for my bed. I get to share it with the woman I cherish. Our bedroom is bigger than the berthing compartment I shared with 21 shipmates.