You know how when you go to the cabin in the summer, and the evening's winding down, the card game's finished, the fire's down to a few popping embers, and the camping cups clang together as you rinse the last bit of hot chocolate out of them? It's cool out, the wind's starting to blow in the trees, and you call it a night.
You pile layers of blankets on the bed, and the musty familiar smell of the linens brings back happy memories of countless childhood summers spent under those covers. (If you had an Oma like mine, the blankets were crocheted in synthetic yarn, and you couldn't stand the feeling of your big toe poking through.)
You pull a couple of pillows out of the cupboard and toss them onto the bed. They're pleasantly cool, and very heavy, the way all cabin pillows are. The heft of the cushions makes you nostalgic for past vacations, and grateful for the current one. The heavy pillows make you feel good.
Except, that extra weight is due to a massive accumulation of dead dust mites and their feces.