The "water" in the photo is white ice, on one of the very last of winter's kicks at the cat.

******************************************

“Have Don’s sheets been washed lately? It smells like boar pig in there. If he sleeps in them he’s going to stink in the morning.”

I hadn’t noticed. Seriously.
When I kick Don off the computer and start stripping his bed, he is reluctant to leave the room. It’s his pillow. He’s worried that I’m going to fluff it, and it won’t be comfortable anymore. He takes it off the bed, out of my way before I grab it and dent its perfect shape -- that of a flat board.

I promise to leave it as it is, just change the pillow case. He sets it down carefully and drags his feet to the kitchen for some lemon-laced water, and I tuck in the corners of the blankets and slip a clean pillowcase over the bag of feathers. The bed looks fresh and unwrinkled and I’m both pleased and relieved that it’s done for a while, again.

I leave Barney’s top bunk for another day, as he’s already snuggled into his covers and halfway to sleep.

When I get to the kitchen, Don asks worriedly: “You didn’t fluff my pillow, Mom, did you? You left it just like it was, right?”

Yes.

But oh, how I wanted to fluff it. For his own good, of course.

******************************************

Pain is not permanent
and the past is not
a sacred object.
~~~ K. Hunter~~~