Clean Sheets

“He’s like…clean sheets,” she said, “Do you know what I mean?”

Mind drifts back to days before air conditioning; cricket song penetrates still air through open windows--the night is heavy. We four, after long night of lightening bug expeditions, have been scrubbed clean, dirty feet and all. Mom shakes out cool cotton and tucks edges, making envelop to fold us inside. Sister and I pile in—slide over delicious cool…sunburned skin and tired legs drink in this crisp softness. And we squeal in delight as she lifts light cotton cover in air, a parachute blanket. It hovers over us…lands with soft breath…blowing damp hair tendrils away from cheeks. Again, again! We cry, until her arms grow weary from waving this cotton sleeping flag over us. And with final covering, this good kind of tired falls over us and we tumble into the rhythm of sleep, closing eyes and breathing in time with night sounds cascading in dark.

“Do you know what I mean?”

My friend repeats, anxious to talk more about this new beau—this beau who feels like clean sheets.

“Yes,” I said, “I think I do.”