“Something on my skin”. That’s my phrase for when I need something to cover me. Not necessarily that I am cold, I just need “something on my skin”. You know, a sheet, a blanket, a comforter, a shawl. Let not my body be exposed to the elements, but encase me in the protection of covering. A heavy blanket is a gigantic hug of therapy stretching its body wide and waiting for me to curl into the center of its longing. I cuddle myself against the warmth of cotton fabric and it accepts my gift, I have chosen it over the others. I dim the lights for a good read or a good movie while throw overs and shawls stand by with stale faces. Their bodies wrinkled with disgust on top the linen closet shelf, or creasing with agony inside bureaus. Word in the closet is that I only visit when I need something and the hangers are too cold at night. But the biggest wars are fought between sheets and blankets. The latter being my favorite pick while the first a last resort. The bigger and fluffier the better, so sheets attempt to stick to itself after washing, hoping for an imbalance of electric charges to create the static electricity it needs to stick around–literally. Like hands holding onto feet for dear life, the layers of my sheets hope too for some chunk of substance, some thickness, but I am not deceived.
“Sorry guys, not this time. But I will need you to guard the corners of my bed, it is after all what you were made for, can you do that?”
Nothing. That’s what I get, silence. This means on the next wash day they’ll command the machine to leave them just dingy enough to get on my nerves. That’s OK though. This is why I prefer blankets over sheets anyway. They are so much more peaceful, and warm too.
The PBS Blog 