a childish thing.

Cleaning my room today I happened upon an old relic from the ghosts of childhood past: the blanket that I was given as a newborn baby and that I kept beside me in my bed well until the age of five at least.

It shows the wear and tear of a child's affection. Where light blue silk once ran around its edges, only rough edges and the stitching of a hem remains. It is threadbare and in other places there are holes large enough to fit two or three fingers through.

I know that at one point I loved this thing obsessively, that at one time it meant all that was warmth and security. But oddly, today when I found it, hesitantly pulled it towards me and held it close, all I could remember was being an unsteady boy of five or six, embarrassingly given to crying and wanting his mother, and staring at my dear blanket much as it is now--fraying edges, tatterred holes, visibly approaching the point of falling apart--and deciding I had to put it away forever, because if I kept it with me I would eventually destroy the thing I loved.

I know it seems childish to say that today I felt like I was holding the vestiges of those first nights after I put my blanket away in a closet and cried myself to sleep, sometimes guiltily walking to the closet and pulling out my ragged cotton protection against loneliness and fear. But that's how I felt.

:-) maybe I will take it with me to sleep tonight. Just for one night.