Clean bedding holds a magic of it's own. As I slipped under my freshly changed linen tonight, something about the smell of the linen and the weight of the covers, transported me. I was suddenly a child again and sleeping over at Granny and Grandpa's house.
The house with the toilet still out in the yard, so we had to use white enamel potties in the middle of the night. I think we drank extra tea before bed just to guarantee that we'd need to wee, just for the novelty.
The bed was high and wide, floors bare wood, a soft focus print of Jesus and His lambs hung above the bed in the middle room. I don't remember as much about the back bedroom, other than the mattress I used to sink right into. I only slept there once we got too big to share a bed. I'm not sure who insisted on sharing in the first place.
The story goes that shortly after The Squire was born, I climbed into Grandpa's car and demanded a holiday from "the baby". Obviously I was very persuasive because a suitcase was packed and I refused to come home for a week. I can understand that, I'd do anything to escape the noise of life and be back there.
There under the sheets printed with little pink roses.
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