comfort

Last night John walked into our bedroom and found me with the bedcovers covering part of my face. It wasn’t until he said something that I realized my hands were pressing the layers of quilt and sheets over my mouth, in an act of self-comfort.

I think I’d told John before that when I was younger I slept with the covers over my head. Especially on nights that I was scared. Because the warm cocoon of blanket seemed so much safer than whatever loomed in the dark night.