This sad-looking little quilt is my much-loved, shredded, falling-apart blankie. I haven’t been able to let it go and I haven’t looked at it in years. I don’t know why it still holds so much importance for me. When I do look at it, I love it all over again and just as much as I ever did. I remember the game I’d play, where I’d try to figure out what image on the front the stitching on the back traced around. I see the stain from when I fell asleep playing with Silly Putty in my bed and it got stuck to my blanket. And I remember that my mom got mad. I see black dog hairs from our family dog stuck in the falling-out quilt batting. I’ve thought about mending it, but the fabric is like paper now and is disintegrating. Plus, who cares about it but me? I’m 46. It’s time to let her go. Being a part of this project is the perfect thing for blankie and for me. She’ll be part of something that will last forever and ever, and should I ever need my blankie, I will always know where to find her.
(A funny: The dog’s name was Cinders. Now the blankie will be cinders too.)