Spelunking in Bed

One year, when I was nine, I missed Thanksgiving because I was sick. I was stuck in bed with a high fever. I could hear everyone in the dining room eating and having a good time. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, and I wished I had an appetite, or felt like getting out of bed.

I decided to go spelunking in my comforter. When I was little I would put a blanket over my head and pretend I was exploring some deep dark cave. Down in the cave I found the usual things, a chamber of ice, a pool of magma, a monster, a pretty girl, that sort of thing. Then I found my head. It was giant, the size of a two story house. I crawled in through the mouth and proceeded on my hands and knees. It was hot and moist and dark, and the further I went the more cramped it was until I was on the brink of panic and tried to turn around, but the way back was blocked. I ran on all fours down the passage like a dog chasing a rabbit—or like a rabbit running from a dog, more like. Then, without seeing it coming, I found myself in the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, and I decided never to leave.