As euphemisms go, we are clothed in something more than sleep. A blanket owned by my grandmother protects us from the chill of a winter night. Children we have known named their bedclothes, but this has been too many places – cedar chests, closets, spare room beds, and his large double where my grandfather wound his octogenarian body while dying on hot summer nights. His body wouldn’t warm itself. Where are those days now when life asked less of us and covered us as we dreamed about courage and the world lay down with us and sang us softly to sleep in wool. Life never rests. It sighs and spins, and pulls its edge to its side of night and when we hold it up we see a million tiny stars in the weave and think we are wrapped in heaven.