the parental bed

I got back into town after a three-week cross-country roadtrip with Morgan and her new little dog, Tula. Feeling a little directionless I let a newspaper coupon for $5 off at Thrifttown guide me off to do what I do best: sift through discarded linens. After four years of this activity (dare I say, hobby), I feel like I've seen it all-- the myriad of large-print floral patterns, the infringement of Disney copyright, the dizzying paisleys and of course, the incredibly real and mysterious stains of other peoples bodies. Imagine my surprise to come across, for the first time ever, the sheets my parents had on their bed when I was growing up (my mother reports that these sheets, now completely threadbare, have finally been retired to a goodwill box in the garage). It's always strange to see something familiar in a thrift store, especially if it's an object that seems so personal. One of two reactions usually happens: the existential panic of identity theft or the warm drowning hug of nostalgia. Of course I bought them. They are clean, they are not threadbare-- a time warp to twenty-five years ago. I told my mom about them on the phone and was met with the usual hesitant reluctance from the family of a self-referential artist, "So... are you going to, like, do something with them?"