The Softness

I bought new sheets because the old ones

were falling apart at the seams.

I couldn't pretend they were fine anymore.

I washed them this morning for the first time.

They came out of the dryer soft

in a way I'd forgotten sheets could be.

I made the bed and lay down.

The fabric was almost translucent,

so thin I could see the light through it.

So light it barely seemed to be there,

like sleeping on nothing,

like being held by air.

I didn't want to get up.

The material caught the afternoon light

coming through the window.

It looked like water,

like something that might evaporate

if I moved too quickly.

This is what good cotton feels like

against skin.

This is what I've been sleeping on—

the broken version of this,

the threads coming loose,

the fabric gone thin

from too many washings,

too many nights.

I lay there for an hour

after I woke up.

I let the sheet settle on my body,

I let myself feel

how soft something can be

when it's new,

when it hasn't been worn down yet,

when it still believes

it's going to last forever.