You know you have made it when my mother knits you a blanket. She’ll sneak into some room of the house and spend hours with needles bouncing off one another. Each one of them a different color, each one a different pattern, as different as the people they are intended for. Before she retired a few years back I could never figure out how she hide it from my father, anyone who walked into the house, until that moment when some holiday would come around and she would stand there with beaming pride as you opened the box. Something specially wrapped up to later be the thing that you wrapped around yourself. I guess someone would call it an extension of a mother’s love.
Sitting in the window, watching the snow fall wrapped in that blanket is one of my good times. Curled up under that blanket, sharing with another person is what I used to live for. There’s something about it that changes the way you interact with each other. The worst of days can be made better when that time comes around. Winter is my favorite.
Winter’s also the time of year I hate the most. My brain goes to events just prior to Valentine’s Day where my life sort of ended without me even being in the room.
Yesterday it was a little cooler than normal in Boston, just the result of a storm blowing through. When I had gotten home from an afternoon I’d rather forget, there was a note on the table. Go grab a shower and put on some clothes. It’s not like I wasn’t dressed. I don’t sit around friend’s homes naked! Lost in my on thoughts, sitting at that table I never heard anyone walk into the room. I hadn’t moved in an hour, time stood still while marching on for the rest of the world. I felt the blanket go over my shoulders, drape down onto the floor. It’s one of the things I brought with me from my own house. The kiss on my head was gentle, soft. And then they were gone. Hell, I don;t even really know who in the house did it. Might have been some kindly burglar!
Eventually I climbed the stairs, blanket in tow. Showered and dressed I just walked back down to a living room with a few people waiting patiently. They might have waited the entire night if I had asked. I guess my mother had called to let them know before I got back how things had gone. “Let’s just go out and have some dinner. I don’t feel like cooking. Where do you want to go Lary?”
“Anywhere, just make sure there’s loud noises and far too many people.”
We kept silent about my day. Eventually we’ll talk about it later today. Probably while at least two of us are sharing that blanket.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Turn, Turn, Turn.”