Lying on the fleece covered table, I wondered why all doctors’ offices weren’t nearly as cozy. Warmth radiated from beneath the blanket, and if I didn’t know better I could have closed my eyes and imagined being under the covers in my bed with a heating blanket surrounding me. It was as far from thinly rolled parchment on top of vinyl that you could get.

I stared at the ceiling, full of needles and relishing in the moment: soaking in their pointed aches, calculating their calculated twinges.

Even full of needles, I knew the room calmed me. And I knew it was something more than the soft clay colored walls, the distant view of the bridge, and the meditative music.

And then, I knew why. It was something as simple as three frosted glass light covers on a popcorn ceiling. They filled me with more comfort than a bowl Oodles of Noodles and Swiss Miss on a snowy afternoon. They reminded me of my grandma’s house, of her bedroom lamp, the one I had spent hours lying next to, listening to grandma “Tell me a story about Jack and Lori…” Suddenly, I was seven again, and I was safe.

And then, I missed her more than ever, and I wanted her in that room, telling me that same story, the one that probably had a happy ending that I can’t remember.

The beginning may have been the only part of the story that she told, or maybe it was the only part that I heard before drifting to sleep with my eyes on the soft, glass light, painted in pink roses, and rimmed in gold, with a turn-key light switch.

I wish I had it now, next to my own bed. I wish I had grandma and her story. You see, I really want to know how it ends.

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