I’m not talking about stealing them, or bunching them or even pushing them to the floor in the throes of passion; I’m referring to climbing under them on a cold rainy morning. This March morning, I hear the rain and wind whisper softly to my window.
I like to grab a bunch of the “shanket” (sheets/blanket combo) and wrap it tightly around my shoulders with a little over the top of my head to keep out the light of day. I also tend to bunch a clump in between my legs for reasons still unknown to me.
There is a subtle sense of safety and security that only a piece of woven cotton, a thick comforter and a soft mattress can provide. How is it that this cut of fabric can keep the monsters of the day ahead at bay? Perhaps it begins with the thunderstorms of childhood when your parent’s bed becomes a haven from the wrath of the heavens.
A place of peace provides a sanctuary of silence where dreams begin and nightmares end; a place where love takes hold, and bodies bind; a depth where pets sigh, tails wag and cold noses probe.
I never take for granted this place to sing my snore.