I must have run hot even then. I was three or four, and I remember looking through the open window across from my bed, at the black, hot night. My parents were both standing over me, and every time I kicked the sheet down to the bottom of the bed, they’d pull it back up so that it covered my chest. The sheet was its own form of torture. One of them said something like, “You have to have a sheet covering you, so you don’t get a chill,” and I balked: one more rule that made no sense at all. I imagine now that I imagined then the long road of a life ahead of me, frying in my sleep because of the cursed Sheet Rule.
Sometimes my father would come in to sing a bedtime song. He always sang the same thing: Tura Lura Lural. He was a tenor, and I remember laughing when he sang, because of high voice. But it’s such a nice memory, my father making an entrance to sing me to sleep.