I am a blanket

I am a blanket. Not a sweater.

I’ve spent my life wishing to be something more functional. More take-along-ish. More of a sweater.

For years I longed to be the friend you’d grab on a brisk night. The one you needed at that party or that restaurant soft launch with outdoor fire towers. Someone who’s light and airy and just right for any occasion. But I’ve come to the realization that’s not me.

I’m the one you grab when the power’s out as you tip toe outside while clasping a Scrooge candle holder to check on a sound you heard in the backyard. When you need to be wrapped and rocked. When you need someone to see the sides of you you’d never let loose at a party or restaurant soft launch. The parts that feel a bit too icky to look at again once you’ve shown them to me. I become the reminder of an emotional hangover you need an aspirin and a diet coke to shake off. Do people still use Aspirin? It felt more writerly than Advil. Aspirin it’s more …poetic…more war time.

Being a blanket is okay. Everyone loves cuddling up with one, every once in a while. And there’s no better feeling than bringing a new one home from Indigo. It’s just that a blanket’s not right for every occasion. And I wonder if it’s enough?

I am a quilt woven with stories. They sit in my stitching. Your stories become my own as I drink my coffee in the morning light before the little one wakes up. We are one I say to myself wondering if I’ve ever made it into someone else’s pattern.

Not everyone needs a blanket. Some are perfectly dressed. Or they run hot. Or they prefer reading socks.

It would be nice to be a stiletto. The base for seduction and broken toes. A confidence boost wrapped in pain.

Or a romper. Telling everyone you’re here for fun. You don’t take yourself so seriously. You’re perfect for the beach or the office. Versatile. You could really go anywhere.

But not a blanket. Your place is on the couch or around a campfire or a drive-in.

Luckily, you’re not one of those motel blankets. The ones that light up like a Christmas tree when faced with the burning embers of a cigarette. You’re not a fire hazard blanket, no. You’re more of a throw.

You observe from your perch atop the couch or crumpled in a heap beside toes. You hold stories and tears. A comfort. And yet you know your days as a blanket are finite. You will shift into something else someday. And it will happen so slowly you won’t notice it until you’re completely different.

A vase holding things about to bloom. Or a getaway car.

As your seams dissolve and your edges fray you become more free. Tattered. Less beautiful but you don’t care about that as much anymore. To be useful is important. And you don’t get to choose what others need. But you can learn to sit with yourself and embrace the form you’ve taken. For now.