aucun objet

When I was little, my mother made it a point to put her immensely talented fingers to work for our benefit. Each of my siblings and I were the recipient of a quilt tailored to our personalities. Each quilt had squares that reflected the untapped talent of our child selves. Mine had navy blue squares checkered with big ABCs and 123s. My mother somehow acutely guessed I’d be some kind of nerd—as if the Construx robot army I whipped up for her to complete her household chores wasn’t a tip off in and of itself.

These blankets were our bread and butter as children. There were 5 of us, and on rainy days and Sunday afternoons our pastime was to build tents using all the chairs in the house, the extra comforters, and of course, our blankets. We must’ve looked like tribal chiefs summoned for a council as we waved our colors. When it was naptime in the afternoons during the summer, I liked to curl up with my blanket. If I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t sleep. Other blankets composed of entirely the same material were somehow too rough and uninviting. By all reports, I’ve grown out of it. However, after Mrs. Sixline and I launder our sheets and blankets, when I lay down to sleep I can still see and touch that old blanket of mine.

Even though I’m too old for security blankets, there are still some things that I can cling to and sleep soundly through the scariest of rainstorms. A child’s psyche is so illogical—as if thick layers of cotton, wool, and fleece can stop the fiercest creature.

And yet, their power is real. They’re something familiar, something tangible, something warm.

Tonight Mrs. Sixline and I had to fold up a security blanket and store it for another time. It’s gone, but not for good. It’s just put away for now.

We love you, Fozzie, Kermit, Scooter, Animal, and Gonzo. You brought us comfort and made us safe. We hope you know just how much warmth you are responsible for in our lives.