When I was a kid we had a featherbed. It was usually kept up in the attic, so it wouldn't wear out, but very occasionally my mother would bring it downstairs -- say if the power went out during a winter storm. It was wonderfully soft and warm, and just absorbed you in its folds.
I miss the featherbed. I am slowly recuperating from my upper respiratory infection, but I'm stil tired...so terribly tired. And -- at the risk of further appalling my online literary critic by writing about everyday life instead of Deep Thoughts on Theology -- the annoying Aunt Flo is once again overstaying her appointed stop at my house.
When my mom died, I recall feeling an actual physical jolt, like an icy cold electrical shock, throughout my body, draining away all my energy. I honestly believe that this thing is still working its way through me. I'm simultaneously edgy and starved for sleep, and utterly exhausted. I'm self-absorbed; self-dissatisfied; lacking in confidence; unable to make decisions about trivial matters.
And right now what I would love the most, I think, is about three days under that old featherbed. No talking; no thinking; not even feeling. Sleeping...a long, deep, undisturbed sleep. When I woke up, as I imagine I would periodically, I'd sense the loft and warmth of the featherbed cocoon around me, and I'd sigh and pull the featherbed closer around me, close my eyes and fall asleep again.