Comfort in Winter Wrapping of Down

The Boston Herald

I told her it was the cold-winter-post-Christmas partums. "That's why you can't get out of bed in the morning. It's January. Nobody wants to get out of bed."

But Rose said she had never before had a January like this.

"I literally cannot open my eyes," she insisted.

She blamed the room darkeners she got for Christmas and her new down comforter.

"Do you think it could be these things?" she asked.

"I don't think so," I said.

We used to have room darkeners, thick shades that turn noon into midnight. They did keep the light out, but not the noise. We had them when my children were small and awoke in the middle of the night wanting to play Legos. We even put them in their rooms to trick them into thinking it was night when it was day. It never worked; they were not deceived.

"It has to be the comforter then," she said, describing how warm this thing was and light and fluffy and cozy and how she has never slept as well in her life and has never had as difficult a time waking up.

I got a down comforter for Christmas, too, but I hadn't used mine. It was still in its zippered plastic bag because I intended to take it back. I already had a comforter, not down, but who cared. I had a blanket, too. These did the trick. They kept me warm. How much warmer did I want to be?

And then it snowed and snowed and wouldn't stop snowing, and it was so cold that ice formed on the inside of the windows. Then the windows started leaking, and water started dripping inside too, and it was like living in the Arctic on the tundra.

That plump comforter waiting in the corner looked tempting suddenly. It beckoned. It said: "Come on, open me. Give me a try. What are you afraid of?"

But I was resolute. I did not need a comforter.

Then one night when it was so cold that even the dog was huddled on the couch dreaming, I relented. I thought, OK, I'll open it. I'll put in on the bed. I'll try it.

Sleep came instantly. One minute I was tucking the soft white thing under my chin; the next minute the alarm was screeching.

I must have been tired, I thought. I must have been exhausted and didn't know it.

But the next night it was the same thing. I settled into bed with "The Romanovs." But I never made it through a paragraph let alone a page. The mystery, the deceit, the politics and machinations that were unburied when nine skeletons were exhumed from a shallow grave in Siberia had riveted me all day. But when I wrapped the comforter around me, they were totally forgotten. There was consciousness followed by unconsciousness followed by morning.

"You need to try this thing," I said to my 18-year-old, who was still home on college break. "I need to know what you think of it."

She fell asleep in a second and I couldn't get her out of bed in the morning.

OK. So put the comforter back in its bag and give it away. This is what I should do. It's too comfortable, too warm, too perfect.

Which is exactly why it remains on the bed. It is, indeed, a comforter in a world where comfort is needed. It doesn't just lighten cares, it obliterates them, at least for a while.

Is it a fluke? Does this deep sleep have nothing to do with feathers and everything to do with winter and hibernating and hormones?

I don't know. Rose is in New Orleans. When she comes home I'll ask her how she slept there. But in the meantime, consider the dog.

I found her under the comforter yesterday. She'd snuck upstairs and was dead to the world. "Do you want a bagel?" I whispered. "Do you want to go for a ride?” “The mailman's here.”

She always responds to these words. She leaps up and bolts and barks.

Not this day. Under the comforter, she stayed. In January, even the dog doesn’t want to get out of bed.