It’s always been the two of us, my blanky and me. I rub the soft familiarity against my face, the way a cat nuzzles your leg when it wants to be fed or cuddled. It reeks of life, a sweet mixture of sweat, perfume, dirt, and experience. The warmth my blanky radiates amazes me, when I consider the fact that virtually all of the stuffing no longer exists. I trace the familiar, although faded, outlines of a rocking horse, clown, jack-in-the-box, and a duck, on the almost transparent fabric. The ruffle has become a border of shredded lace. Too many years of being dragged around the house, hauled to sleepovers, and crunched by nervous hands. I never took my blanky to Papa’s house; his smokes made the smell go away. Nana has always nagged me about washing it. I would always, eventually, succumb to her request. Each time, I fearfully watched my blanky agitate in the soapy water of the washer. I never believed her, when she would attempt to console me, and promise that my blanky would be fine, that it wouldn’t come out ruined. I still don’t like to wash it.
Like me, my blanket is fragile. It has suffered and enjoyed the toils of a life. From the day of my birth, my blanky has been there at every crossroad, joy, and trial. Even when I am alone, I don’t have to be without it. My blanky has wiped the tears of a six-year old, belligerent about staying home from school because she was sick. In later years, my blanky has draped the arms of a slumbering seventeen-year old, as she blissfully dreamed about the boy who had held her hand for the first time, earlier that evening. My blanky has traced every memory. I am twenty now. My blanky is still here, a source of comfort that I have yet, been unable to replace.