the guez

When I was a little girl, I used to love when my mother changed the sheets in my parents’ room. She would lift the drier-warm cloth over her head and throw it across the great expanse of bed- and I would squeal and dive under it, a quick visitor in a bright sheet-cave that collapsed over me. My mother would pretend to grumble, Bat-Sheva, get out from there, I need to make the bed . And I would pretend to agree and tumble off - only to dive in again when she threw the sheet across a second time. I could play the game forever, I never tired of it, and would only give up when the grumble in my mother’s voice became genuine, Bat-Sheva STOP . Then years passed, and I forgot to play the game. And then more years passed and I forgot I had ever played the game. And then more years passed and I got Marlow. Marlow is my cat . Every time I get out the laundry bag, his butt gives a little wiggle. I throw up the sheet and he dives underneath, scuttling around in the little tent, attacking