Reflecting on the comforts of covers

When I was a little kid, covers were protection from monsters and other such evildoers (serial killers, ninjas, neighbor’s dogs…). It didn’t matter what was going on outside, because I had that rumpled assortment of sheets and quilts to hide under. They muffled scary noises and blocked out the trees’ eerie shadows against my window. It was a forcefield protecting me from the world, imagined or real.

When I was a little older, the covers became my hideout. My friends and I discussed everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) under there, the covers our only audience. I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning reading Nancy Drew with my feeble spy flashlight. I took my CD player and sang along to the Newsboys. My covers weren’t protection then, there were shelter.

Now that I’m older, they’re both. But I don’t hide all the way underneath them. There aren’t any monsters [that I know of] out there. My iPod drowns out the weird noises. So I stick my head out to look at the stars. Although I purchase new covers every couple of years, they all seem the same to me, because they share the same mission: giving me what little protection they can offer.

It helps, even if it’s just a little.