It’s so easy to sit down and write about bad memories.

The pain is easily accessible, the shame, the hurt. I can easily write a story about how I fell on my right knee as a child.

But, I’m finding my way back to joy, and even though these painful memories are a part of why it is my path, I now love to dive into the happy memories, some of which I’d totally forgotten until I was prompted to write about them.

My friend Corinne is a great teacher in memoir writing, and today I wrote about my old duvet thanks to a prompt from her.

I haven’t slept under that thing ever since my mom declared the thing beyond repair when I was in my teens, but now I can almost feel its weight upon me again.

Here is that story.


An aunt of my mom’s asked her one day if she would be interested in a thick feather duvet, and to my mom’s surprise, I immediately said yes.

so many happy memories about reading in bed under the covers :)
not me, but this is an accurate depiction πŸ™‚

It was huge. At least 20 cm thick allover when you’d fluffed it up.

And I loved it. On cold winter’s nights I shook most of the feathers to the top of the bed so I would float underneath a cloud of ridiculous warmth. In summer I usually flattened out the bed so I wouldn’t be too warm.

I never took it off my bed, even on the hottest days, then I slept on top of it, though, like the princess on her pea.

What I loved most, though, was to curl up under the duvet, turn on my flash light and read. The best thing about it was that it was so thick that you couldn’t see the light shining outside. I tested it.

So every time mom came to check if I slept, I lay quiet as a mouse, and she never knew I wasn’t really sleeping.

Or maybe she did, and granted me my joy πŸ™‚


What is one thing you remember as fondly as this?