Sometimes love gets blamed for what a camel did.
Grandpa woke at 2:17 in the morning with a serious problem.
Grandma was taking up too much space.
He knew this because his left shoulder had disappeared, his right elbow was pinned against his ribs, and something warm was breathing directly beside his ear.
Marriage, he decided sleepily, required patience.
On the other side of the tent, Grandma reached exactly the same conclusion.
Grandpa had somehow become enormous.
His back seemed wider. His knees had multiplied. And unless marriage had recently developed fur, there was something about him she did not remember from breakfast.
But they had walked all day.
The desert had been beautiful in the unreasonable way deserts often are—miles of nothing that somehow required enormous effort to cross. By sunset, Grandpa had barely managed to remove his sandals. Grandma had announced that she could sleep through a sandstorm.
Neither intended to investigate a crowded mattress.
So Grandpa moved three centimeters left.
Grandma moved three centimeters right.
The camel, comfortably installed between them, gained six.
He had entered through the open tent flap sometime after midnight.
There had been no invitation, but there had also been no objection.
For a camel, these were practically the same thing.
He folded his long legs beneath the blanket, lowered his head between two pillows, and sighed with the deep satisfaction of someone who had finally solved accommodation.
Grandpa heard the sigh.
“Sorry, dear,” he murmured.
Grandma, half asleep, answered, “You too.”
The camel closed his eyes.
By sunrise, the arrangement had become official.
Grandpa was pressed against one wall. Grandma occupied approximately half a pillow. The camel owned the center, most of the blanket, and apparently the better part of the marriage.
Grandma opened one eye.
Grandpa opened one eye.
Between them, a large sandy face was still sleeping peacefully.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Grandma whispered, “So that wasn’t you.”
Grandpa looked at the camel.
“No,” he said. “But I owe you an apology.”
The camel snored.
Some misunderstandings survive because nobody cares enough to investigate them.
Others survive because love is remarkably willing to make room before it knows exactly what it is making room for.
And occasionally, while two people are patiently forgiving each other, a camel gets the best bed.
Livora Gracely 
Leave a comment