Her Blanket
When I was young, I liked to write. When I feel brave enough, I plan to post some of my stuff, from time to time. Here's something from somewhere in the 1980's or early 90's.
Her Blanket
by srw
She sat up all night long sewing her blanket. It was worn, for the years had been cruel. It had been red and purple, blue and gold--all of the colors one might find in a meadow on a sunny day in springtime. But now it was nearly all gray. The excitement of life almost all lived out of it.
When long ago she first sat down to piece it together, she was young and extraordinarily fair. Every boy in her small country town hoped that blanket would eventually be his. But she could see nothing in any of them...nothing to inspire the creation of such a magnificent blanket. No, she was crafting it, saving it for Him... the only boy who could draw from it every last drop of love and warmth...the only boy who could wrap himself up in it, head to toe... it was going to be His blanket.
And he would love it.
She wove each tiny stitch with tender care, each one tied with a kiss. The brilliant colors were given freely of herself. The red from her lips the color of rubies set in a promise ring. The deep blue of the oceans came from her eyes, and the spun gold from her flowing hair. There was also a majestic purple... the same you see at the foot of the mountains in Kentucky at the very moment the sun sets in the West... the purple came from the bruises left behind when he walked.
The blanket was her gift to him the day they said “forever” to each other so many nights ago. It was a beautiful thing to see-- and to feel. He wrapped it around himself twice. It covered his body and his soul. It took him in and in and in until, he realized, he couldn’t breathe. But it was too late now.
It was first torn a bit when he tried to escape... of course, he couldn’t. Even if he did, where would he go? At least here it was warm and safe. So he gave in to it. But the small scar was there. No matter-- she could fix it. She could sew anything with her needle and thread.
Through the ages of his life in her blanket, it became more and more difficult for him to see. It was very dark inside, only blurs of sickening color. Eventually he was able to shut them out. Then there was only the darkness. Finally, even the deep black lost itself inside and faded to gray in disappointment.
One day, as he stumbled along in the gray of the blanket, he chanced upon something new... something wide open and free. He leaned a little closer to get a better look, after all, his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be... after all those years in the smothering gray. The closer he examined, the more he could sense there was something he had never had before... something better than an old gray blanket... something he wanted....
It took just few suggestions for him to lay down the suffocating old rag and be freed. So now he was.
As he walked away into the cool wind, he glanced back only once to see her blanket lying in a heap upon the grass in his own back yard. As he passed beyond the foot of the purple mountains, he never missed it... or her. And he wouldn’t acknowledge the chill he felt somewhere inside himself now.
And the girl, once so fair, had no more ruby red upon her lips to give away for the mending of the blanket. Her eyes now pale and dim, and her hair now coarse and white... she only had left the purple with which to mend it. So late into the night, she sat upon her knees sewing a thread of majestic purple into the gray fabric of her blanket... the same color you see at the foot of the mountains in Kentucky at the very moment the sun sets in the West.
Her Blanket
by srw
She sat up all night long sewing her blanket. It was worn, for the years had been cruel. It had been red and purple, blue and gold--all of the colors one might find in a meadow on a sunny day in springtime. But now it was nearly all gray. The excitement of life almost all lived out of it.
When long ago she first sat down to piece it together, she was young and extraordinarily fair. Every boy in her small country town hoped that blanket would eventually be his. But she could see nothing in any of them...nothing to inspire the creation of such a magnificent blanket. No, she was crafting it, saving it for Him... the only boy who could draw from it every last drop of love and warmth...the only boy who could wrap himself up in it, head to toe... it was going to be His blanket.
And he would love it.
She wove each tiny stitch with tender care, each one tied with a kiss. The brilliant colors were given freely of herself. The red from her lips the color of rubies set in a promise ring. The deep blue of the oceans came from her eyes, and the spun gold from her flowing hair. There was also a majestic purple... the same you see at the foot of the mountains in Kentucky at the very moment the sun sets in the West... the purple came from the bruises left behind when he walked.
The blanket was her gift to him the day they said “forever” to each other so many nights ago. It was a beautiful thing to see-- and to feel. He wrapped it around himself twice. It covered his body and his soul. It took him in and in and in until, he realized, he couldn’t breathe. But it was too late now.
It was first torn a bit when he tried to escape... of course, he couldn’t. Even if he did, where would he go? At least here it was warm and safe. So he gave in to it. But the small scar was there. No matter-- she could fix it. She could sew anything with her needle and thread.
Through the ages of his life in her blanket, it became more and more difficult for him to see. It was very dark inside, only blurs of sickening color. Eventually he was able to shut them out. Then there was only the darkness. Finally, even the deep black lost itself inside and faded to gray in disappointment.
One day, as he stumbled along in the gray of the blanket, he chanced upon something new... something wide open and free. He leaned a little closer to get a better look, after all, his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be... after all those years in the smothering gray. The closer he examined, the more he could sense there was something he had never had before... something better than an old gray blanket... something he wanted....
It took just few suggestions for him to lay down the suffocating old rag and be freed. So now he was.
As he walked away into the cool wind, he glanced back only once to see her blanket lying in a heap upon the grass in his own back yard. As he passed beyond the foot of the purple mountains, he never missed it... or her. And he wouldn’t acknowledge the chill he felt somewhere inside himself now.
And the girl, once so fair, had no more ruby red upon her lips to give away for the mending of the blanket. Her eyes now pale and dim, and her hair now coarse and white... she only had left the purple with which to mend it. So late into the night, she sat upon her knees sewing a thread of majestic purple into the gray fabric of her blanket... the same color you see at the foot of the mountains in Kentucky at the very moment the sun sets in the West.
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