A Bed in the Quilted Pocket

I walked back inside from the dark garden path, letting the door latch shut behind me. My bare hands felt empty and light, but my green cup was still out by the brick, watching over the little snail house through the night. Beside the bookshelf, someone had dropped a plush oven mitt patterned with bright blue and white tile prints. I stopped and touched the quilted surface with my soft palms. It had deep, pillowy diamond ridges and felt delightfully warm. My feet were very tired from pattering along the damp garden dirt all day. I gently nudged the thick opening apart with both hands, slipped my legs deep into the soft cotton lining, and rested.