Like A Lost Blanket

Prose Revisited Series #5

I grasp at the threads of you, which I swear were just there yesterday, but yesterday’s now years ago. I can imagine the fabric, I think, slipping through my fingertips, but when I open my eyes nothing is there.

What was it exactly that I loved about you? You had a facial gesture I loved, I think. Re-runs of our conversations used to eat at the edges of my mind late at night. Now, I’m wondering what it was we even talked about for all those seconds and minutes and hours of ours.

How did you love me? Was it by holding doors open for me, hugging me tight at night, encouraging me to follow my dreams? Did you volunteer to hold the door for me, or were you victim to my requests? Did you hug me from the left or right, for a minute or throughout the night? Did I try to follow my dreams, or was I chasing the pixie-dust perfection I envisioned you wanted me to be?

I realize now you are the blanket I lost when I was five-years-old. I was sobbing, my face throbbing with my screams and streams of tears. My mother rummaged through her bedroom, looking for my blanket. I had just come up the stairs to help look for my lost blanket. I continued screaming and crying, with swollen eyes and an aching heart. I’d snuggled with that blanket every day, and every night. It comforted me when I woke unsure of where I was, or when I’d awoken shaken from a gnarly nightmare. I remember pausing mid-walk in the hallway to realize I didn’t even remember what my blanket looked like.

Was it pale yellow, worn, with satin-like edges? Was it red plaid with stripes to remind me of far-off Scotland? Blue? A flowered pattern? Pink? I could remember the general idea of the blanket: a rectangular shape, woven of fleecy fabric, but the specifics of it had unraveled in my mind and spilled out somewhere else, never to be retrieved.

At this moment, I realize I just missed a blanket; it wasn’t important which blanket I’d lost. At this moment, I just miss someone to love and someone to love me; it isn’t all that important that it was you.

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Love,

Ochwoman

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