My grandma used to say, always make your bed in the morning.

That's how you start the day, rain or shine.

Her adage was about more than being orderly.

It was about taking responsibility for your life and everything in it.

That includes the choices you make, even the bad ones. It was a lesson I didn't think

much about, not till I was in my 20s and got my first writing job. Yeah, I was getting paid to do the

thing I loved, and I wanted to make a big purchase. You know, because now I could. Listen, the thing you buy when you get that first paycheck

says a lot about who you are. Folks told me to get a car, a watch, but what I wanted was a bed,

a nice one. I've been on a futon for ages, so it was a comfort thing, sure. But it was more than

that too. A real bed meant stability. I'd worked so hard for this check. And if I had a

nice bed, I could finally rest. So once I had my money in hand, I went to a local furniture store on Hollywood Boulevard.

I quickly realized I was in the wrong place. It was an antique shop full of things from the past,

when I wanted the future. Stacks of old time magazines covered ancient dressers. A layer of dust made the whole place seem foggy.

I was about to leave when something caught my eye.

At the back of the store was a massive four-poster oak bed.

Its posts were carved with wooden vines and chiseled gargoyle faces.

A velvet canopy presided over the thing, casting a shadow onto

the mattress. I walked over to it. It wasn't practical, but it was huge. Keep in mind,

I'm a tall guy. I needed a bed where my toes didn't hang off the end. This would fill that order.

But before I could test it, a voice cut through the quiet. This would fill that order. But before I get tested, a voice cut through the

quiet. It was sharp and carried a note of fear. It told me to stop. The store's owner emerged

from the depths of the shop, like a wreath. White hair, folds of wrinkles, as antique as the stuff he was selling.

...