Sigh. I seem to dress the family’s duvets in worn-out covers of late with the result that my younger daughter (oddly enough always her) comes to me for another after few nights. Because it rips open.
Two were turned into shirts. Two others were turned into PJ’s. This one is different though:
Not so much because it’s older than the others. But because there’s time embedded in it. The blotchy pattern is an experiment I made with thinned-out textile paint dripped and splashed onto fabric. The faint and wavering purple line to the left is embroidered. I spent time making that duvet cover.
I spent even more time including some very good time under it. I made it when I moved away from home to a so-called kollegium, a Danish near-equivalent of a dorm except it’s not necessarily on a campus, there’s no room mate system and you don’t have to move home for long vacations.
It was there I met my boyfriend / later husband, there I made friends for life ( I hope!) There I battled memory, learning skills, rotten economy, got myself terribly drunk after exams and generally enjoyed life to the most. It was on my bed with this cover friends would sit and share my G&T’s to talk through nights of plans and harebrained schemes. And it’s all associated closely to this cover. We had shared laundry room with washers and a dryer, no place to air-dry anything, and so it would at regular intervals leave its duvet stuffing, go in the washer followed by the dryer to get stuffed again with the duvet. And a dryer does add to the wear of clothes, including bedclothes.
Which means the rip is no surprise. The rest is more or less as worn as where the rip appeared. The sensible thing to do would be to just throw it into one of those Red Cross containers.
Feelings aren’t sensible. There must be some way to use this. I can’t let it go. Not yet.