Thursday, April 17, 2014


A gift for a newborn -- this soft, silky, quilted, white batted, tiny-flowered blanket. It covered the baby as she lay in her crib, and followed behind her as she learned to walk, its one dirty, favored corner held tight to her cheek.

It went on sleepovers, surreptitiously stuffed into her overnight bag, never actually coming out, but available to the small hand seeking that corner in the night.

It went to school (in a way) when she cut off a strip small enough to fit into her uniform pocket, readily available to be touched in moments when comfort was called for.

It went to college and marriage and babies, from apartment to house, always settling behind her pillow, always waiting for the girl in the woman, the child in the mother, the little in the grown.

Covered and re-covered, washed countless times, this tiny quilt held an unconditional love, elusive in infancy, yet longed-for still, nearly 60 years later.

It sits, even now, folded, tucked behind her pillow, ready to offer its corners of contentment and calm.

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