The Yellow Blanket

We met on the day of your birth, w hen I protected you from the first cold you ever knew. Your mother knit me for this first meeting, a union that would last a lifetime.
It is April now, the spring sun pouring throw your nursery window bathes my yellow skin, as we rest together. Sometimes you wake up, and I see you, carefully observing the ceiling with insatiable curiosity. Other times, you rub me against your face to wipe away your tears.

I keep you warm while you suck your thumb. Our comfort with each other is endless. You take me everywhere so you can show me off to the world. You spend your days perched on me, a blanket of everlasting unconditional love, sharing with me the burdensome yet welcomed agony of life.

You carry me on, although our face time is more infrequent. But I’m not upset. I of all things in your world am the most understanding. I will always be yours, even long after you stop needed me to fall asleep at night. It’s strange though. You seem to be quietly obsessed with youthful companions. They are different than you, yet the bond between you is ever so clear. If you ask me, I think you become a bit dramatic at times. You are so young, yet when she stopped coming back I meet you again, wiping the tear tracks from your face with my yellow fabric. Frankly, I like when this happens, because it gives us a chance to be, well you know, us.

Although I never shared the occasional smack in the face, and late night shower, I feel like a round laundry is much needed. My thick yellow coat now has some bleach spots.

This is natural. Still when you are especially furious, you pound your fists against your bed and curl up with me. When your friends come over, you drape me over your bed like any other blanket, but I still know you care. Always I am at the top of your bed, providing a light yellow hue to your white walls when light comes through the window. I remember when Mother moved and you thought you lost me. For months I sat in that barren box in the basement, and when you finally found me you promised not to lose me again. We were both so happy.


I am folded delicately, smothered by a comforter and nestled next to a collection of bath soaps. I don’t mind though, it’s nice to have a blanket of my own for once. I wish I came outside more, but I understand that your wife doesn’t quiet “get it.” And besides, she would probably get jealous. Do you remember when you first made love to her? I facilitate your love, as you stroke the soft hair of your beloved. I watch proudly, as you gaze into each others eyes, sharing the warmth of each others gentle embrace. The love is real, and pure.
Of course I appreciated your privacy.

When your wife goes away on business, out from the closet I come. And we romp around the bedroom as if we were young again. You still cry sometimes, but your laughter too is deep and full.

I feel a bit ragged sometimes now. I feel myself unwinding slowly, becoming undone. As if I was slowly melting like soap under running water. I see your skin growing loose off of your bones; I see your movements become slow and careful. You sit upon me, my yellow now dimmed with age, when you are on the porch in your rocking chair brandishing your pipe. Sitting hour after hour with your wife, soaking in the sun and feeling truly blessed to be. Sometimes you both speak about what is next, and wonder if your love will still grow after death. I too fear death, but this is natural. When my fibers unweave themselves and are finally let go, I will become dust, I will become the earth. As will you my love, and we will be together again. And will your love still grow after death you ask me as you wipe your teary eyes for the last time? Of course, for with love there is no death. For with love there is only eternity stretching far past the sun.