Dear Bedsheets with the Oversized Pink Rosebuds,
You clothed our parents’ bed when we were small, still living in the first house on Belmont Street, the house decorated in 70s deep oranges and browns. You, though, were soft pinks and bright, new green on white.
I have an image of the way you looked with sun coming in through the windows one day I was looking for my father and he was standing by the closet choosing a jacket. And I have an image of the way you looked one night, my mother lifting you like a wing to admit me into the warmth when I couldn’t sleep.
I was walking down the street a few years ago when I saw your twin (your cousin? How do bedsheets define that relationship?) hanging as a curtain in an apartment window. I felt such a rush of comfort and my 40-year-old self felt again what it was to be five. I knew immediately I would like those apartment dwellers very much, whoever they were.
You were lovely, thank you.
-e.