As a little girl, I spent every other Friday night at Aunt Flossie's house. Her sheets were fresh and white. They smelled of bleach and sunshine. Even in the unbearable heat and sult of summer, her sheets were crisp and smooth. And cool.
In the iciness of winter, in the mystical time of night, I was brought to Aunt Flossie for safekeeping. In a sleepy, shivering euphoria, I crawled between the cool white sheets, under the heavy quilts. I had been delivered to love and found it snug. The world couldn't get me under the sheets at Aunt Flossie's house.
