Tonight I changed The Boss's sheets, smoothing flannel over a layer of egg crate and fluffing out the comforter. I took the scalloped edge of the top sheet and folded it over the comforter, then, like my mother used to do, I folded that edge on a slant.
It was the perfect pocket for The Boss to wiggle into. Like an envelope, the bed was an invitation. I resisted the urge to crawl in. As I looked at my daughter, I thought back to when that three year old was me, bone weary from a day of being curious and unencumbered, eager to let the powder of my skin seep into the mattress as words from my favorite book floated above me. Back then I was blissfully dependent.
In a bit I will change the sheets on the queen bed that is mine and The Partner's. I'll smooth flannel over egg crate and I'll fluff out the comforter. I'll take the edge of the top sheet and fold it over the duvet, then, like my mother used to do, I'll fold that edge on a slant.
It won't be the perfect pocket and I won't wiggle. Instead I'll slide in with limbs heavy from caring and commitment. I'll read a book to myself. And as I begin to nod off, it will be with a snore of acknowledgement that the weight of thirty years was once the air of safety around a three year old's deeply sleeping hush.