A Middle of Something

Many times I write about something and I have no idea what it will be connected to or whether it will develop into something more.  This is one of those pieces.  This is a middle with no beginning or end, yet.  Maybe time and this blog will help develop it.  Ironically, since the first time I scrawled it into my journal, to the re-write on my external hard-drive, to this second draft/re-write, I've realized that this could be the beginning or the end.  It might be something other than what I originally thought it was.  Only time will tell...


"CRISP SHEETS"

I sought comfort.  Not companionship.  Not pity.  Not sympathy.  Comfort.

I wanted to feel at ease at home - able to take a breath and not let it shudder back out.  I wanted it to be simple and easy.  To come to me - to not have to look for it.  I needed to slide into it like on a night when there are clean sheets on the bed.

The feel of clean, crisp sheets on my bed always warms me and makes me feel relaxed.  Maybe because I know it's only a matter of time before my body will raise the 63 degree temperature of the sheets to a very toasty 98.6.  But ironically, even when I'm cold - I'm comforted by the cool cotton against my skin.  It lulls me and soothes me.  It signals the onset of sleep and drifting away from the frazzle and hurried pace of my day.  Even when I am sick, I long for the cool and  crisp of clean sheets.  It reminds me that warm is coming.  The cool linens take the bite out of my body.  They are a king-sized compress for my 120 pound boo-boo.

Clean sheets are also a new beginning - a fresh start.  They are a threshold for new dreams - new hope, when the sun rises.  Stripping the bed releases the bad and old energy of my restless days and sleepless nights.  Throwing them into the laundry to be doused in detergent, hot water and bleach washes away all the troubles of that week and gives me a chance to make it all right the next time they are stretched over the four corners of my bed.  And for me, only traditional cotton will do.  "T-Shirt" cotton is not nearly as good.  The cool is not contained throughout the fibers the same way.  T-shirt cotton is comfortable - but it is not fresh comfort.

And a made bed is still not as good as a freshly made bed.  No matter how much I smoothe and pull to make the sheets flat, taught - crisp - they don't stand at attention the way the clean ones do.  Once you've slid into them they take your heat and they hold it in - relaxing their fibers, softening, making a cushy place to lay the next time.  They mean well - to be inviting, warm and protective.  But it's not the same.  Even with 15-18 hours of emptiness, they can not return to clean and crisp.  They somehow hold some little bit of residual warmth.  They are never as cool as the first time they were placed.  And that warmth builds with each night of sleep until it almost feels like I'm slipping into a second skin and there is no change in how I feel.  There is no release - no sense of letting go.  The warmth is stifling.

I wasn't chilled and didn't need automatic warmth.  And with the cool I knew, without a doubt, that the warmth was coming.  It always does.  And it doesn't take long.  There's no impatient wonder as to how long, it just comes.  The cool is the warmth.

I needed clean sheets.

I hurried my pace just a little, but was careful not to rush.  My quickened, deliberate pace was more about clearly understanding my need and not about avoiding it.  I took the stairs two at a time, but with a concerted, gentle step, not with a bound.

I entered the room and for only a moment I paused at the doorway.  The bed was, of course, already made.  I moved to the wicker hamper where we kept the spare sets of sheets and lifted the lid.  I knew what I was looking for before it was up all the way, and swept my hand inside, grabbing the only set that made sense:  the deep rust, 550-thread count set we had selected together on a cold February morning less than a year ago.  Our taste in bedding was much like our taste in furniture and paint:  completely different.  He loved deep, rich colors and antique-inspired styles.  I was more light, airy and contemporary.  When we found ourselves stuck on the Home Shopping channel rewinding with the DVR option to make sure that we were clear on what they were offering, we were surprised that we were both interested.  We both actually liked the bedroom set "in a bag" that would convert our whole room to earthen-colored decadence, from sheets to comforter, to window treatments.  We agreed on a decorating scheme!  We had ordered on the spot.

I piled the pillows on the hamper and threw back the heavy comforter, laying it to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Tugging at the sheets and the blanket simultaneously I finally understood his annoyance at my perfect hospital corners:  they did not give up easily.  More force was required than I wanted to exert, so I slowed my pace and carefully untucked each corner and peeled back the sheets.  I had waited long-enough and wasn't going to enter this moment aggitated.

The "dirty" pile of sheets were slumped up against the wall as I unfolded the clean fitted sheet.  Grasping the sheet half-way down it's side I gripped hard and snapped the sheet hard into the air.  It fluffed up quickly and then seemed to hang in the air for just a second before falling down onto the bed with just enough air in the middle that for a moment, I was reminded of middle school gym classes with parachute fun.  I actually found myself snickering at the thought of scootching under the sheet before it came to a rest on the bed, but there was no time.  The sheet was down and I had work to do.

I started at the head corner on my side of the bed, where I always started.  I moved on to the foot corner on my side, across the end of the bed to the opposite side, pulling the sheet tight as I went.  By the time I got to the opposite head corner, the sheet was flat and almost perfect.  I pulled the side of the sheet towards me and down and finally tucked the last corner over the edge.  Instictively I swept my left hand and then my right over the sheet, pushing the few wrinkles in the fabric to the edges and they miraculously disappeared.  It was just like what I watched my grandmother do when she taught me to make a bed over 30 years ago.  It was flawless.

Stepping carefully back to the other side I continued to make the bed, top sheet first, then the blanket, and of course, hospital corners finished the job.  I pulled the comforter back up, and after smoothing it of all its wrinkles, I slowly folded it back and made one final straightening motion that evened the sides to the height of the bed frame.

Standing there staring at the bed, I wanted to jump in - but I also wanted to turn and leave the room.  Leaving wasn't an option, so I carefully slid into the bed, fully clothed.  Again, I found myself almost snickering.  Afterall, "street clothes" were not supposed to be worn in bed.  Bad habits for other people meant smoking, drinking too much or swearing.  In our house you were committing the ultimate dirty deed by wearing to bed what you had worn out and about.  But at this moment it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be sleeping.  Traditional rules did not apply.

I lay down and immediately felt the cool on my left cheek.  As my eyes closed I curled my left arm under my head, feeling the cool all along my arm from the back of my hand to my elbow, and into my shoulder.  My t-shirt was not keeping the cool from me.  I stretched my right hand out and lay it gently, flat on the bed next to me.  Reaching out to "his" spot I could just feel the dent of the pillow-top below the sheet and I traced the outline with my fingers.  Like so many times before, I heard myself say, "I love you, with all my heart...Wherever you - " and that's where I caught myself.  For I knew exactly where he was this time.

And for the first time since he'd been gone -

 I wept.