My Bag

I was walking through the garage just now, when something fell from a shelf and landed at my feet. My sleeping bag.

When I was 9 years old, my mom made me this down sleeping bag from a kit. That week, there were feathers everywhere.

How I loved that down bag! We camped a lot, since we had no money for any other kind of vacation and Dad's ultimate goal was for us to live in the woods anyway. And I took my bag to two camps, most summers. Way later when I went away to college, I had my sleeping bag on my bed the way some freshmen had stuffed animals. It was my comfort object.

When my sleeping bag was a year old, we moved to Celo, Janet left, and it was Mom, Dad and me. Period. When he was there, anyway. And when they'd fight, there was no big sister to hustle me out the door or crawl in bed with me. Instead, I'd head for the river or the porch, or hover around the edges, waiting for the sign.

Eventually, Mom would mutter to me, "get your sleeping bag," and I knew we were out of there. We'd sleep in the car, or maybe in a friend's attic--waiting for the wrath to dissipate.

Now it's 30 years later, and I have a 9-year-old myself. The downy, delicate feathers inside this thin nylon membrane are still intact. I could still cinch up the string around my nose and be completely protected from the winter winds. If I needed to.

Instead, I put it back on its shelf in the garage. It's good to know it's there. And just as good to know that I really don't need it,
except for camping.