My grandmother taught the "hospital corner" as The Way to make the bed, a crisp fold in the sheet, everything laid flat and smooth as a mathematical plane. She implied that there was no other Way. She implied that a bed made without a "hospital corner" was not, technically, made.
But my life quickly became not linear. "The throw and forget" was what I did with the duvet.
Now it falls on me to be the teacher. I've surprised myself. I tell my children: "Make your bed. No, not like that, a nest for a rat, surrounded by old smelly blankets and Batmen." I tell them to make it smooth. Smooth, crisp, neat. I used to not care for these words either.
I watch them sulk and struggle with their comforters, and I say, "Watch." What I'm saying is soon their lives will be eagle's nests, bulky, and unclean with sticks and fishbones, and I will keep the beds made, while I can, a distraction from the wilds, and a possible route for return from them.