2023-2024, Short Story, Writing

The Linen Sheets

By Marly Greene, ’25

It’s like new sheets at the beginning of the month. After showers it feels soft, clean and smooth. Linens traced with the scent of a clean start. Breathing through the longing of the memories you cherice. The warmth of the blankets protect you. Pillows puffed up and energetic. By the end of the week you’re used to its habits, the sheets getting wrinkled, having to straighten the pillows from hugging them, longing for that fresh feeling to come back. Get up, roll over, pull the covers down, feeling the breeze from the long sighs you sing. They listen, and turn over to the next day. Weeks have passed and you feel disgusted. The guilt wraps your consciousness like the sheets of the past 3 days. You want to leave, but the memories hold you back. Dusting off small crumbs onto the floor while watching movies. Pillows supporting your back while reading books. The overwhelming warmth the blankets gave when the coldness lasted too long. Suddenly it all seems too much. Memories bury you, and push you back down into the swollen covers with the linen sheets.