The blanket.

There's this blanket. It a very nice blanket, very soft and comfortable. It's the type of blanket that you could just wrap yourself up into and just feel safe. It's also well-worn, well-aged, showing distinct signs of history and use. There's also an aura of love, from the love the went into making it and the love from it's use.

The blanket is tattered. The blanket is coming apart. The blanket's fabric is fading and thinning. The blanket is irreplaceable.

For as long as I've know Annita, I've also known this blanket. Her grandmother, who has been passed for years, sewed it by hand. The quilt work is lovingly crafted, the squares not perfectly square so that you can tell an actual person chose the colors and layout instead of a machine; blues, purples, reds, greens, and brown, a nice earthy and cool pallette. The underside is covered with little zebras running through a field of blue flowers sprouting from black stems on a white background. You can see the stitching from the squares of the other side subtley adding texture to what could have been a monotonous design.

Annita loves this blanket, probably the most treasured of any possession. Of course, who wouldn't treasure this gift. As it gradually falls apart, so does it tug at her heart leaving her dreading the day that she might have to give up cuddling with it on her couch over a cup of hot chocolate. It tugs at mine, as well.

Well, we're not gonna let that blanket be lost, if we can help it, and we can always help it. If it ends up on a wall in one of those special "quilt frames," so be it. Until then, I'll continue to smile whenever I see Annita huddled up with that tattered old thing, for as long as she still can.

: )