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Mutine.
Adjective.
Used to describe an individual whose spirit is unyielding, unconstrained.
One who navigates life on their own terms, effortlessly.
They do not always show up on time, but when they arrive, you notice an individual confident in their contradictions.
They know the rules, but behave as if they do not exist.
Mutine.
The new fragrance by Miu Miu.
Defined by you.
Welcome to Get Sleepy.
Where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy.
As always, I'm your host, Tom.
Thank you so much for tuning in.
I really do feel honored to be able to speak to you whenever you choose, to listen and to hopefully bring you a sense of comfort and reassurance in the process.
As someone who's had a challenging relationship with sleep for the vast majority of my life, I hope to help you feel that bit less alone if you're finding yourself struggling too.
There are so many of us that are part of this wonderful community of sleepyheads, as we like to say.
Which goes to show that, whatever brings you here, whether it's because of some challenges you're dealing with, or perhaps just the desire to fall asleep with something soothing in the background, you are most certainly not the only one.
So thank you all for being a part of the Get Sleepy family and making everything we do feel so worthwhile and special.
In tonight's story, which was written by Shawna Marie and will be read by Arif, we'll join a young boy named Charlie in New York City as he sets off for a dreamy adventure on a flying bed.
But first, let's prepare for our story by taking a few moments to settle down and ease our minds.
As I already mentioned, I strive to bring you a deeper sense of comfort and reassurance whenever you press play on a Get Sleepy episode.
And right now, I'd like you to give yourself some comfort and reassurance.
Whatever is going on in your life and however you're feeling at this time, I know that you're trying your best.
We are all on our own journeys of self-discovery and journeys towards goals and achievements.
Sometimes these journeys feel exciting and life seems to flow easily as we go about our daily activities.
But equally, These journeys always present challenges too, and moments where we may question ourselves or our circumstances and direction, and that is completely normal.
Our life journeys are always ongoing and they will fluctuate, twist and turn in unexpected ways and bring us challenges and difficult emotions at times.
But joy and happiness is within reach too.
And even when times do feel hard, you don't know what's around the next corner.
So, as you settle down tonight, give yourself some recognition and appreciation.
Many of us default to being self-critical.
I know I do it so often myself.
But we all deserve to feel love and appreciation for who we are and the way we try our best to live our lives, the way we feel is right.
So perhaps you can internally say to yourself right now I am trying my best and that is all I can ask of myself.
Now my friends, take a nice deep breath with me and allow yourself to let go and relax.
Breathe in to the count of five.
One, two, three, four, five.
And exhale for five, four, three, two, one.
Perfect.
Now, it's time for me to hand over to Arif as we begin our story.
It starts in New York City, some years ago.
The year was 1948, and Charlie was not an especially sleepy little boy.
New York City was permanently alive, and one had to become accustomed to the persistent undercurrent of noise.
You see, Charlie hadn't been living there for long.
He and his parents had recently packed their possessions into smooth brown boxes and boarded a one-way flight to New York City.
I want to tell you about what happened after Charlie's family moved into their new home, and I want to tell you this story exactly as it occurred.
So first, this is how they ended up in the city.
Charlie's father, Phil Rev, enjoyed being a journalist in Albuquerque, New Mexico, but he often found himself reporting on varieties of the same story over and over again.
In the evening, The young man fixed himself a pot of coffee and wrote in a journal gifted to him by his wife.
He wrote reams and reams of stories, first factual stories, and then, when he tired of writing those, he let his imagination run free as fiction poured from his pen.
He wrote until his wrists grew tired and his hands ached, and he felt delicate fingers touch the nape of his neck.
Come to bed, Sarah would say.
Your pen and paper and imagination will still be there in the morning.
To which Phil would half-heartedly nod.
He closed his leather journal and set it on his bedside table until morning.
It was a known fact that Phil Rev would take his freshly sealed newspaper submissions to the post office on Monday mornings.
In fact, everyone in the post office knew the writer by name.
Morning, Mr Rev.
The post office boy would say, as he gently took those hard-earned words from Phil's hands.
Phil would always linger a little, waiting until his letters were gently slotted into the mailbag.
This routine had become so common that the Rev family often forgot that these stories were sent to real people.
The day the Times letter arrived, Charlie Rev had collected the mail from the mailbox at the front of the farm.
The young boy mindlessly shuffled through the usual letters as he wandered inside until he came across one bearing his father's name.
It was unlike the others.
The envelope was a creamy white, and its contents folded thickly inside.
While his parents chattered upstairs, Charlie sat at the table and stared at the words on the front of the envelope.
There was his father's name and their address and the words, the times The letter had been sent from New York City.
Charlie had some inkling of what this meant.
It meant some notion of success, of recognition, and of telling new kinds of stories.
In fact, the inkling was strong enough that Charlie could not eat his cereal.
He was too distracted by the letter.
His parents' chatter came nearer, something about a bill and a pair of trousers that needed hemming.
Phil patted his son on the head and asked what he was reading.
Sarah smiled and said that he seemed a little young for the morning paper.
Charlie asked his father a question.
What would you say if I said that in five minutes you're going to get your dream job?
Phil sipped his coffee and sat across from his son.
Chuckling, he responded that he'd spill his coffee.
Charlie turned the letter over in his hand so that it faced his parents.
Better get another cup, then, he said.
Phil's eyes widened, and Sarah instinctively gripped his mug and placed it gently on the table.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Charlie was quiet the day his parents drove him to see the house in New York City for the very first time.
He simply looked out the car window and observed the trees which had dispensed a flurry of leaves onto the sidewalk.
There were tiny shops that looked like supermarkets.
When Charlie asked his mother what they were, Sarah said they were called bodegas.
Charlie thought to himself that perhaps he had found one of his new favorite words, bodega.
As they drove on, the scenery changed.
There were couples on walks, babies being pushed in strollers and street vendors selling something puffy and sweet and the slightest bit oily.
The tall buildings cast shadows on large portions of the streets.
The wheels of the car rolled onward.
The gentle bumps and sways from the motion of the vehicle mellowed Charlie's mood.
He leaned his head on the more comfortable part in the back, that nook between the seat and the window.
To Charlie, New York didn't seem too bad.
It was brick and mortar like everywhere else, with perhaps a little dash of magic.
The engine of the car rumbled and little Charlie fell asleep.
Until finally, Sarah tapped her son on the leg and told him, We're here.
The house was skinny, reddish-brown and tall, with a big blue door, a golden handle, and a knocker.
Though it was wedged between two other houses, it stood out significantly.
There was a big tree at the front, too, which was also tall.
It was densely covered with leaves that were waxy on one side and dusty on the other.
Charlie shut the door and stood in between his parents.
Tilting his head slightly, he thought it looked like a storybook house.
As he went inside the house for the first time, Charlie was allowed to roam the first two floors.
Although he was impressed, he didn't say anything.
It was all too new to come to any concrete conclusions.
Sarah gave her husband a look, but Phil simply told her to wait.
So the couple waited until they had climbed the stairs to the top landing.
Phil told Charlie to shut his eyes extra tight.
Like this?
Charlie asked as he scrunched his face up.
Phil smiled and said yes, just like that.
Upon entering his room for the first time, Charlie could do nothing but lie on the floor and look up at the ceiling.
And so his parents lay on the floor on either side of him.
They lay there while the earth turned on its axis and day became night, until the constellations in Charlie's wallpaper glowed in glorious luminescence.
Phil had diligently sought out a wallpaper with a space design that glowed of its own accord.
He looked at his son, who was thoroughly awestruck.
When Charlie had been told that they were moving to New York City, his first concern was not where they would live or what their house would be like.
Instead, he had asked quite plainly, will I be able to see the stars from my window?
In that moment, Lying on the floor with the two people he loved most, it seemed that he wasn't just seeing the stars.
He was in outer space.
Exhausted by a day of new places and smells and people.
Little Charlie fell asleep right there on the floor.
Phil scooped his son into his arms and placed him in his bed.
After a moment or two of watching Charlie snuggle into his sheets, Sarah and Phil left him in his room of bright stars and celestial bodies.
In the days that followed to Charlie, It seemed that the boxes dotted throughout the house would never move and that it would stay this way forever.
Bit by bit, belongings were unpacked, art pieces were delivered, and couches and chairs arrived.
Once, Charlie asked his mother what a home was.
She said, the outside with walls and a ceiling.
And when she told him this, he knew it to be true, all because of the wallpaper in his room.
On the tenth evening in their new house, Phil and Sarah sat on either side of Charlie's enormous bed and spoke softly to him.
The boy was not especially sleepy.
Typically, Phil was the one to tell a bedtime story for the family, but this time, it was Sarah.
She asked if everyone was ready.
Charlie nestled his head deeper into his pillow and his father folded his legs and propped up his back with one of Charlie's cushy white pillows.
Sarah began to tell her story.
I was not always Mrs. Rev, she said.
A long time ago, I was Sarah Hernandez.
She chuckled at her son's reaction before continuing, Yes, I was.
And the fall before I was born in Albuquerque, my mother, your abuela, spent all her spare time knitting this blanket.
Sarah took out a brown parcel and placed it on her lap.
It was tied up with a red string Holding the parcel she had so faithfully protected.
Since the day she moved away, Sarah felt a tingle of love and home.
That place, part desert, with trees that lined the baking hot streets.
And the heat, that unwavering heat, the way it rose from the asphalt and waves in the peak of the afternoon when Sarah played with her siblings.
But not too far from home.
They were close enough that they could hear when their mother called them in for dinner.
As she had done so many times before.
Sarah pulled the strings loose, gathered them in her hands and draped them over one of Charlie's bedposts.
She carefully opened the wrapping, and in its center was a thick blanket with a brilliant design.
It was red and cream, with dots and dashes and diamonds and squares.
Sarah told her son that he came from a long line of brave and creative people.
And just as Charlie carried his father's lineage, he also carried Sarah's.
After lying out the blanket on top of his duvet, she leaned closer, as if she were telling a secret.
She said that her mother had spun a tale about the blanket she had sewn.
It was part of her family's evening routine.
Dinner, then a bedtime story.
When Sarah was no taller than Charlie, she would eat her fill at the table with her four brothers and sisters.
They would swallow vegetables whole to get them down faster and argue over who deserved the last piece of bread.
And finally, they would look with expectation at their mother for something brown and sweet and thickly coated in a tin of condensed milk.
Then, Once Sarah had scrubbed her teeth clean and slipped between her bedsheets, she would look at her mother in expectation, once more hoping for a story.
The room was large enough to fit all the children in the house.
The larger beds belonged to the three older children. and the smaller beds to the two younger ones.
Each child was gifted a blanket of their own, all hand-sewn by their mother.
The room felt more like a cabin.
It was like some rustic hideaway, with the children's drawings pasted on the walls and with dark oak beams, bed frames and floorboards.
Because of the creativity of the children's mother and grandmother, swatches of color filled every corner of the room.
From the bedsheets to the tapestries, to the rugs that lined the floors.
In the evening, the children settled down, dragging the duvets up to their noses, with a slight giggle.
Their mother would then tell the story of the magical blanket.
She said that if a person was gifted a blanket by someone who loved them very much and if its new owner hoped and believed enough, They could fly.
The children snorted in a dismissive way, to which their mother chuckled.
She told them to hush, close their eyes, and relax every muscle in their body.
And without much effort, the children collectively sank further into their mattresses.
Their mother said that the blanket was proof of pure magic.
It would take them somewhere far away.
Couldn't they feel it?
She described how the large window on the far side of the room would open and how each bed would gradually levitate until out.
It went up and up through the clouds until they were past the Earth's stratosphere, onward to the expanse of space, and higher and higher until they found it.
Glittering and no longer distant, with its chalky rocks and craters, the moon.
To the sleepy children's surprise, their mother paused.
She took a deep breath as they shuffled in their colorful sheets and she began to hum the same melody she hummed to her children every night.
She told them that she would see them in the morning, And when she was sure that each child had left for the Land of Nod, she would walk past their beds.
She would plant a kiss on each child's forehead, gently stroke their cheeks and turn off the lamps on their bedside tables.
The light of the lamps would disappear with a satisfying click.
And just as their mother walked past Sarah's bed, the girl would give her a cheeky grin.
Good night, my lovelies.
Her mother would say, and she would flash her youngest daughter a grin back in return.
Without saying another word, the bedroom door was closed and the hallway candles lit.
When Sarah's father would ask where the children were, their mother would smile and say in that knowing way, The grown-up Sarah had her fingers furled around the thumb of her only child, Charlie.
She told him that he would always have his abuela's blanket to keep him warm and that the blanket would take him to distant places.
If he only believed.
Phil gently shuffled off his son's bed and kissed him on the forehead, and Sarah softly hummed the song that was encoded in her DNA.
Charlie was tired now.
His mother switched off the bedside table lamp and the walls and ceiling came to life with the lights of the stars.
Phil and Sarah quietly went out of their son's bedroom, but left the door slightly ajar.
Charlie looked up at the ceiling.
He tried to name each constellation without looking at the squiggling lines paired with their illustrations.
And he wondered what it would be like to fall asleep on the moon.
A moment later, the thought was dissolved in sleep.
He had tucked both small hands beneath his countless sheets and blankets.
Beneath his navy blue duvet and the blanket his abuela had made.
He drifted off with the most wonderful thought that if love could be stitched into fabric and pass down generations, then love must be the most powerful form of magic.
And it was the love of his grandmother that kept him warm all the while.
Charlie was almost certain he was dreaming.
Dreaming would explain his altitude, and it would explain the absurdity.
It must have happened while I was sleeping, the boy thought, and he was correct.
You see, what happened was the French double doors to the balcony opened ever so slowly of their own accord.
Next, Charlie's bed began to levitate quite gently and it rose higher and higher until out it went through the doors.
It ascended away from the lights of the city that never sleeps.
The bed flew past lamp posts and apartments and, in his waking moments, the trees Charlie thought would never end.
The bed flew past the stratosphere, puncturing the clouds with a whoosh, until the bed no longer needed to fly but merely floated instead.
And float it did past whatever eddies of nebula existed in the deep ether and the constellations that Charlie had memorized.
Then, like a soap bubble at bath time, the bed descended, going down and down until it landed on a rocky surface.
The moon Charlie said, quite perplexed.
I'm on the moon?
The bed swayed gently from side to side, as if to answer his question.
There were miles and miles of the moon from every angle that Charlie looked at.
It was dusty silver, with craters of varying sizes, some incredibly shallow and others so large Charlie could stand fully inside.
Scattered around the landscape were rocks of unusual shapes jutting out of the surface like the remnants of a shipwreck, and it seemed as if frosting sugar had been dusted everywhere.
As the boy reached for his abuela's blanket, He realized it was not on the bed.
He looked to the left and right of his large bed, but it was not there.
Something was shuffling just behind the boy's head, so he looked to either side, but there was nothing there.
Then, in a moment of inspiration, Charlie whipped his head at record speed and there it was his abuela's blanket, with the top corner folded inward like a face.
One length and another corner somehow made two hands, and the other two corners were legs.
Caught by surprise, the blanket raised both hands and collapsed on the ground.
Charlie poked his chin over the side of his bed and looked at the colorful bundle of fabric.
Whispering now, the boy asked the blanket to stand up again.
One corner of the blanket poked out of the mass of fabric and shook itself from side to side in protest.
Please?
Charlie asked.
The blanket paused and then began to shuffle away.
Charlie pushed his feet into his sock boots and grabbed the puffy coat that hung over one of the end bedposts.
He followed the bundle of fabric wherever it was going.
It shuffled further and further away, until it stopped at a bright red gate.
As if gifted to him by the powers of the universe.
Outstretched in one of the moon's craters was a park.
It was quite unusual, The park was shiny and red, yellow and blue all over.
There were slides in triplicate shades, a smooth merry-go-round and trampolines that were sewn into the ground.
And there were plastic telephones you could speak into and hear your voice metallic and wiry.
On the other side There was also a castle and a rope wall to climb.
On the far side of the park, resting in the center of a bench that was painted navy blue.
There was something round and shiny.
Charlie looked for his blanket, but it was missing once again.
He looked left and right. and up and down, so sure that it had wandered away again.
Curious, the boy placed his hand on the red park gate.
Mesmerized by how colorful and glossy everything was, he pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
The texture of the ground wasn't anything he could place.
Somehow, both gravel and dust, the ground sunk inward with each step.
Before Charlie could really examine the park up close, he noticed something moving from the corner of his eye.
It was the blanket near the park bench.
As Charlie moved closer and closer, it seemed that the blanket was holding something.
Furrowing his brow slightly, Charlie asked the blanket what it had in its arms.
The blanket, didn't bother looking over its shoulder, but continued to fumble with the thing in its cloth hands.
Charlie sighed.
He apologized for frightening the blanket earlier and said that he was so curious about what it was holding.
The blanket paused, hung its head, and turned to face Charlie.
In the blanket's cloth hands was a helmet of some kind, something Charlie had seen in an article in the Times.
A space helmet, Charlie said, looking at his blanket.
He took the helmet out of its cloth hands.
Just as he was about to put the helmet on, He noticed that the blanket had sunk onto the park bench head hung over.
The young boy looked at the helmet, then at his blanket, and back at the helmet again.
He sat down on the bench next to his blanket.
No one said anything for a while, especially not the blanket.
Above them, the stars twinkled, and dust clouds spun in an assortment of colors.
The moon seemed to be forever away from home.
Charlie took one of the blanket's cloth hands into his own and spoke gently It's okay that you don't have a body like mine, you know.
It's all right.
It takes more than a body to make something real.
You're covered in all these colors, and my family loves you dearly.
The blanket lifted up its head and gently nudged its cloth hands toward the space helmet.
Do you want to see?
Charlie asked.
The blanket nodded.
Charlie slotted his head into the space helmet, stood up, and spun around.
Neat, isn't it?
He said.
The blanket nodded, took the boy's hand, and led him to the tall yellow swings.
The swings were quite unusual.
They were incredibly tall and the wavy seats were molded in such a way that they were wonderfully comfortable.
Charlie hopped on, and the blanket pushed him higher and higher.
As the air rushed past his ears, Charlie told the blanket everything he knew about space helmets.
In that gentle, rocking motion, he found himself pausing occasionally to yawn or rub his eyelids.
The blanket was happy to listen, and it was happy to push Charlie absentmindedly as he spoke.
Pushing the swing in space was relatively easy.
In fact, less gravity meant that it sort of floated.
Charlie was now talking about the future of space travel.
He said that they would be surprised to find a park on the moon when they finally sent a man into space.
Somewhere in between being pushed on the swings and deciding he was brave enough to go on, the bright red merry-go-round Charlie decided he would give his traveling companion a name.
Mr. Blanket, Charlie said, that's what I'll call you.
Charlie was good at a lot of things, but perhaps not names.
Mr. Blanket pushed Charlie on the merry-go-round, and around the boy went.
He was sure that Charlie's chuckles could be heard all the way on Earth.
But Mr. Blanket did not push too fast.
He pushed fast enough that his companion felt slightly giddy, but slowly enough that it was an enjoyable experience.
Charlie thought that the Moon Park was a new fixture in space.
The merry-go-round's cogs and joints moved as smoothly as butter.
And Charlie was sure that he was the first and only one to use the park.
The monkey bars were easy enough to use.
Charlie swung from side to side as he gripped each shiny metal rod.
And his finale was to hang for as long as possible before landing in a pile of moon dust.
Next was the trampoline.
There were only two, one with thick, elastic mesh and one that was slightly thinner.
Mr Blanket was so light that it would take him almost forever to land back on the thinner trampoline.
Charlie bounced back and forth on the two trampolines.
He threw himself into twists and turns and pikes and somersaults.
After getting in a good number of jumps, the young boy and Mr Blanket ventured further out on the moon's surface.
Charlie thought it would be nice to bring home a souvenir, but after lots of walking he came to the conclusion that there were no gift shops on the moon.
He explained to Mr Blanket that he wanted to bring home something unique that his parents could treasure forever.
Mr. Blanket scratched his woolly head.
He bent over, scooped two rocks off the moon's surface and then tapped Charlie on the shoulder, eagerly awaiting his response.
The boy weighed the rocks carefully in both palms and held them up to the starlight to gauge their quality.
Charlie looked at hopeful Mr. Blanket and smiled, perfect," he said.
Both of the stones were a deep gray and were encrusted in some black jewel or stone.
And if you were to move them from side to side, they would glint like the flickering of a flame or sunlight on a shattered piece of glass.
Charlie popped the space rocks in his pajama pocket and began to walk in the direction of his bed.
It was difficult to tell the time.
Well, Earth time.
Charlie supposed he had not been away from home for more than a few hours and that he would return home before daybreak.
Crunch crunch, crunch went Charlie's feet through the emptiest part of the surface, past the moon park and toward his bed in the distance.
When he arrived at his bed, Charlie was rather warm, so he pulled off his sock boots and his big puffy coat and tossed his coat over one of the bedposts.
Surprisingly, it was comfortably cool on the moon's surface, the perfect temperature for nighttime.
Charlie lay next to his friend Mr Blanket and began to hum the tune that had lived in his family for decades.
Long ago, before Charlie was born, Sarah used to sing to him.
Stroking her belly in circles, Sarah would sing the words she made up in childhood to the tune of a song sung to her before she was even born.
It was about lying on the moon on a perfect afternoon.
The window in the nursery had a clear view of the sky on a brilliant night.
Phil would come in with a hot cup of tea the way Sarah liked it.
Chamomile with evaporated milk and a stick of cinnamon.
He would always set it down to cool on the small table next to the rocking chair and the two of them would talk at length.
Phil would begin by discussing his most recent article.
As Phil spoke to his wife, Sarah rubbed slow circles on her belly, and her mind wandered.
The day they'd moved to the farm was their wedding day.
They unpacked in their wedding clothes and only took breaks to make lemonade.
The next morning, as the glow of the rising sun filled the house, their neighbor came to visit.
The farmer had brought something with him.
He said that its flavor was potently sweet. but that he couldn't think of a better gift to bring.
The farmer picked up a large crate of tins and brought them inside the house.
It was evaporated and condensed milk.
Sarah chuckled and patted her husband's arm.
You told him, didn't you?
She said.
Phil simply smiled and said that he didn't know what she was talking about.
Eventually, Sarah and Phil found two decent pair of comfortable clothes and settled in the living room with the farmer.
They ate plenty with all the provisions from the farmer's wagon — bread scones meat, eggs and, funnily enough, more lemonade.
Phil and the farmer continued to unbox and organize until the early hours of the morning.
All the while, Sarah made over a dozen cups of tea to keep everyone going.
Sarah Phil and the farmer talked on the living room floor until all three found themselves blankets and cushions and they drifted off to sleep.
Sarah, of course, covered herself with the very blanket her mother had given her.
She hummed the well-known tune until she closed her eyes and she too drifted off.
That was a decade ago, when the couple felt the strongest desire to dream and piece together a life of their own making.
Eventually, they decided that the empty room needed painting.
It needed toys and a crib, and the rocking chair Sarah had picked out herself.
As these memories of their life together came to mind, Sarah looked at Phil.
She smiled, and Phil chuckled.
She liked how Phil would listen, how a passing comment she had made a week prior somehow ended up in his article or formed one of his strongest opinions.
Sarah was tired now, but she wasn't ready to go to bed.
The tea had cooled.
She took small sips as she looked at her husband.
Smiling widely, Phil asked his wife to sing that song again, the one Sarah's mother used to hum.
Sarah cleared her throat and started to sing, while Phil knelt beside the rocking chair and placed an ear on his wife's belly.
And both were sure their child was fast asleep.
Years later, young Charlie told tale after tale to Mr Blanket on the moon.
The stars above were like the embers in a fireplace.
Charlie nestled into his pillow, put both hands behind his head, and smiled.
He told Mr Blanket that the wallpaper of the night sky in his bedroom was pretty close to the real thing.
The only difference was that the stars in the wallpaper did not flicker.
Mr Blanket listened patiently while Charlie explained that he'd read about this thing called wind turbulence.
The incoming light of stars was distorted by irregular wind patterns.
So from all the way down on Earth, It looked like the stars were twinkling.
Charlie sat up in his bed.
He hadn't realized that from his position on the moon, he could see the Earth.
It was slightly fuzzy around the edges, blue and glowing, and home to these creatures called humans, and home to Mom and Dad.
Charlie observed the swirling swaths of white clouds, islands, seas, and countries.
He didn't realize there was quite so much water on Earth.
How blue and bright the water looked, He was sure he could pinpoint home, but it was very far away.
Home was all the way over there.
Charlie asked Mr. Blanket for a favor.
The blanket shuffled to signify that he was in fact listening.
The boy said that up on the moon, it was rather chilly.
Without another word, Mr Blanket flew into the air, flattened himself and then descended until he was neatly covering Charlie from neck to toe.
As Charlie lay on the moon looking at the stars, he wondered what mysteries and secrets lay beyond the observable.
What universes, what stars and planets existed out in the ether.
And Charlie was sure that all of the places that existed or would ever exist, being in his bedroom with both parents at his side was the best place of all.
The bed levitated gradually, and swayed in an attempt to coax the young boy to sleep.
For a long while, it hovered above the moon, so he was given a sweeping view of the heavens.
Feeling himself being taken by sleep, Charlie softly began to hum until the stars went hazy and he could no longer see the light of the planet called home.
Mr. Blanket made sure Charlie got home safely.
He navigated from the dusty surface of the moon, past the stars and down through the stratosphere and through the thick night, until he found that reddish-brown house in New York City, the one with the flowers on the ledges and the big blue door.
The bed floated through the French doors on the balcony that led to Charlie's room.
As the bed flew in, the doors shut softly and locked their own latches.
And without a sound.
The bed gently lowered itself until it landed exactly where it was placed.
The day the Rev family moved in.
A hush descended on the city, and the family slept.
Charlie woke to the sound of his father making pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
His eyes opened slowly, and it dawned on him.
I'm home, he said.
He hurriedly pushed his feet into his sock boots, draped his robe around his body and rushed downstairs.
I'm home, he repeated again and again.
Charlie wrapped his arms around his father's apron, not at all minding that he was caked in flour.
Then he saw his mother at the dining table and flung his arms around her neck.
Sarah chuckled, saying that someone had a good sleep.
Phil poured his son a glass of orange juice, patted him on the head and returned to the stove to finish breakfast.
After taking a swig of the juice, Charlie asked his parents if they'd missed him.
Sarah smiled and said she looked forward to seeing him every morning.
Charlie scratched his head and asked if they had seen him return.
Where from? asked Sarah.
Taking another swig of orange juice, Charlie regaled them with his entire night on the moon, how Mr Blanket came to life and how he had played in the moon park until he felt sleepy.
It was crisp in his mind how he had hummed the song underneath the stars.
Even then, he could see the stars flicker like embers.
Hearing those stories, Phil smiled.
The combination of the space wallpaper and the blanket had allowed the boy to have a good sleep in his new home.
Sarah sipped her coffee and said that it sounded like a wonderful trip.
She remembered taking a journey like that a long time ago.
But it must have been a dream.
The pancakes, bacon, and eggs sizzled.
Charlie rubbed his belly, and his father asked him to get ready for breakfast.
So the young boy headed in the direction of the stairs.
Up each stair he went until he reached the far end of the top floor.
As Charlie's bedroom door swung open, he wondered.
He had gone to the moon, hadn't he?
Charlie flopped onto his bed.
As he did, he heard the sound of something knocking together.
He placed his hand in his pocket, and sure enough, there were two moon rocks of different sizes.
The boy could do nothing more than gently pat Mr. Blanket.
Charlie rolled over and looked at his wallpaper. those sprawling heavens.
And beside him one of the tasseled corners of Mr Blanket flipped up in a little wave, as if to say You're very welcome.
Until next time. so Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
