A Cedar Hollow

I crept across the soft bedside rug toward the bottom dresser drawer, left slid open by just a few quiet inches. Pausing until the distant clock settled into its steady evening rhythm, I peeked into the dark cedar hollow. Inside, a tidy row of rolled wool socks formed plush, pillowy ridges in the amber lamp glow. Stepping forward with gentle, patient shuffles, I eased myself into the snug valley between two thick heathered cuffs. With careful nudges, I drew the soft knit close against my sides, resting my chin against an orphaned, gleaming brass collar stud nestled in the seam. Feeling thoroughly sheltered, I let the nighttime quiet fold warmly around us.