When I was a little girl, my parents always made us take a Sunday afternoon nap. I hated forced naps. Now I really wish someone could override my responsibilities and make me nap. How lovely!
The only thing that made nap time passably fun was the Magic Blanket. My father's aunt had given my parents a quilt as a wedding present, a quilt with brilliantly colored silk squares and a faux fur backing.
My siblings and I would argue over who got to sleep under the Magic Blanket every Sunday. I remember laying beneath that heavy rug of a thing, running my fingertips over the silky top, staring at the dry-walled ceiling. I would try to keep my tongue still, neither touching the roof of my mouth nor the bottom of it. I would hold every fiber of my being immobile, trying to calm my mind enough to sleep. I would concentrate on the feeling of the fur on my bare legs, the silk beneath my fingers.
Aladdin himself never had it better.
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