For my birthday a couple of years ago, I received a very cozy blanket. It was velvety soft on one side and wooly warm on the other. Perfect for my evenings in the living room, ostensibly watching TV with Pete and a kid or two but really just falling asleep on the couch, wrapped in a velvety, wooly blanket.
It was such a perfect blanket that all three kids clamored for one to call their own. Come Christmas, each found one of their own velvety wooly blanket under the tree. One of those blankets found its way to UCSD with Eldest last year. But what of the other three?
Youngest has laid claim to all of them. One -- his -- is his bedspread. Another -- mine -- along with Le Daughter's form a cocoon atop his bed. He has a triple threat of velvety wooly goodness each night.
I grant you that he is old enough to "make" his own bed. Still, as day two of high school rolled around this morning -- and I had missed day one as I was otherwise engaged bringing Le Daughter off to college for her freshman year -- I found myself in his room, doing my standard morning task of folding those blankets on his bed. I don't deny taking the chance each morning to stroke my cheek with the velvety side of one of the blankets. I took that chance again this morning.
They represent something, those blankets, although I can't say with certainty what that "something" is. Comfort, certainly. Familiarity, sure. Consistency, too. Ritual, yeah. And maybe trying to hold onto something that seeps out of my house, unable to be contained no matter how I try.