Blankets

I have a blanket with a silk lining. I am three. It is between my finger and thumb. I am caressing and continually rubbing the soft silk. It goes with me everywhere. It is my twin with its stained baby blue hue. I am soothed by its presence, and by the time summer is over I will never see it again. It will end up in a burn pile with the rest of the artifacts documenting my childhood.

I won't remember another blanket until I am a woman.

There will be the one with the seventy's flowers, grotesque and bawdy, comforting to the touch with its satin folds. There will be the knitted one in three colors, mermaid green, purple and blue. It will stretch and wrap perfectly around my body, warm and snug like a feathery cocoon. It will be borrowed by my eldest son and never returned. He will become attached to it like a second skin.

There will be the deep purple, double crocheted blanket with the yarn tassels gifted to me by my brother on a night he had enough vodka in him to bring the feelings out. He will leave for Alaska, and the purple fuzz will scatter over my couch and bed, reminding me of the capability of love after pain, reminding me that I may not see him again before his liver becomes sodden with too much gin.

It will soothe my friends, sick from too many tequila shots and children struggling through aching fevers. It will bring me out of night terror dreams, catch tears brought on by the solitude of the full moon and understand moments where sadness has no meaning.

I am wrapped in blankets that have become members of my family; blankets telling stories of blankets past, blankets lost and the wonder of blankets to come. I keep blankets for the one stolen; the one which carried the last morsel of my innocence into the scorching flames.