Sunday, Sunday
a poem
Last night, as I slept, I kicked all the blankets to the floor so I'm trying to stay warm beneath the top sheet. I suppose that I could lean over the mattress edge and pull the blankets back onto the bed but it's Sunday morning and I don't want to acknowledge that the day has begun. I don't want to rise and make breakfast or sip coffee or read the daily news. So I'm just going to wrap myself tighter in this cocoon and pretend to sleep and pretend to sleep and pretend to sleep until maybe noon.
It was easier to accomplish the blanket kicking when I'd lived in the States – you still had the top sheet for cover. In Europe, where I'm now, there is no such practice. Once you kick the covers to the floor, that's it. No top sheet. You're there, uncovered.
Having said that, that's exactly what I did last night, after my third dream, in which my long-gone Mother came to me with a face of a kind wild boar. I kicked the duvet off the bed, and lied there naked (no pyjamas for me), not wanting to get up, ever. That is, until my Mother would tuck me in again.
Thanks for sharing a lovely poem – it made my day.
That settles it. I’m goin’ back to bed!