The Story of a Blanket

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Do you beleive objects have memories? I sort of beleive they do—at least in the sense of the memories they can trigger in you.

I’ve just finished a blanket that I started approximately one hundred years ago—ok, two—while my mom was in the hospital. This is the blanket that kept my hands busy while I kept vigil and listened to her ragged breathing in the ICU. That is my clearest memory of working on it—sitting in a dark hospital room illuminated just enough by some HGTV program, volume turned down so I could hear her take another breath.

And yet, four or five weeks later, we packed up the hospital room—pieces of blanket included—and took my mom home. My sisters and I cooked Easter dinner and decorated with a welcome home sign and were more thankful than I can describe that our still-fragile mother was back in the home she had raised us in.

The blanket got packed away for the summer—who wants to crochet when it’s 80 degrees out, amiright?—but then as the weather turned colder and my relationship with a man I thought I would marry fell apart, out she came again. First, I would bring my project to his house so I wasn’t bored when we stopped talking to each other. Then, as he needed more time to himself, I made progress at home, watching the circles pile up next to my couch.

All of that seems eons away as I finished the last few circles this fall and winter—although it still fits the theme, as I didn’t start working on it again until it started getting dark early and Andrew worked late and I felt a bit lonely.

So I suppose this blanket is imbued with sadness, but it also seems to have cultured strength and resilience in me. I may never have ended up taking so many chances without those tragic events that my blanket witnessed—and I certainly wouldn’t have ended up here.

She’s proudly on display now, making Bermuda feel a little more like home, and you know the memories that will come to me every time I walk by.

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