LJ Idol Home Game Entry-Blanket
"Here Penny, you can have this. I never use it anyway."
I looked up at the sound of my mother's voice and my heart leapt into my throat when I saw what she was, so casually, thrusting at me.
My Dad's blanket.
I raised my eyebrows at her, was she sure? She'd never given me anything of his, nothing. No matter how much I'd begged I was the only child who had nothing to remember him by except some old photos and broken brained memories. Nothing that was absolutely...him.
She shook it at me almost violently, "Here take it, TAKE IT!!! I don't want it anymore!". She tossed it at me, I caught it just before it hit the floor, fingers trembling.
I held it to my face, let the tears come. It still smelled of him, I could feel him in it.
I went back to the day it was given to him. Our 70 year old neighbor crocheted it for him as a gift. Not for his birthday, not for any special occasion, just because my Dad was always so nice to her and had admired the special blankets she made. Just because my Dad was a nice man.
My mother thought it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen in her life. A zigzag patterned array of colors from dark green to almost fluorescent red, it seemed to be possessed of every last yarn scrap our neighbor had. At 16 years old I had to agree with her, it was hideous.
I can hear his voice now echoing in my mind as he ran his calloused fingers over the rough loops "It's just what I wanted Helen. I'll use it every day, thank you.". I can see the tears in her eyes as he hugged her and I laugh when I remember how she pshaw'd and waved him away, her Lithuanian accent hoarser and more noticeable than usual "It was nothing Robert. You're a nice man.".
He was a nice man.
As I drove home that afternoon the memories rained down on me.
My Dad wrapped in his blanket when Walter Payton, one of only a few men my Dad considered a hero, scored his 11th touchdown during Super Bowl XX. "Look at him Penny!!! Look at Sweetness RUN!!!"
My Dad wrapped in his blanket at Christmas, watching us kids open our gifts and smiling because he'd been able to bring the holidays to us for one more year. Smiling even though we weren't able to afford to give anything to him. Because his kids were all that really mattered.
My Dad sitting at the breakfast table at 5 a.m., sipping his coffee, the blanket on the back of his chair. Almost as if it kept him company before anyone else woke up.
My Dad rocking my baby daughter. The two of them under the blanket together as he cooed at her and told her she was going to grow up to be something special, just like her Mom.....
My Dad, thin and pale. Asleep under the blanket after his dialysis treatments. The filtered blood made his cancer wracked body so cold, the blanket seemed to be the only thing that warmed him. The strong, brown man I'd grown up with still inside of him, the blanket still kept him company.
The day she gave it to me he'd been gone for eight years.
He's been gone for 15 years now.....
...I still miss him.
When I first brought it home it was "Grandpa's Blanket". It was revered, it held a place of honor on my bed for the first year, even I didn't touch it except to wash it from time to time.
Soon though I found myself holding it to me, seeking his advice, his strength. The first time I let myself snuggle into it I felt closer to him, he was almost sitting beside me. I could hear him whispering "I'm right here sis.".
Now it's become "Mom's Blanket". I use it every day. I watch t.v. in it, I read in it, I snuggle my kids in it, I've made love under it. When I'm angry I scream into it, when I'm sad I allow myself to cry while it comforts me. I've laughed while it held me and allowed it to soothe me when I was feverish.
My kids have come to respect it as almost a guardian. When I'm sick I wake up from naps finding it draped over me. If we're having a family cuddle moment they don't hesitate to grab it. They even use it when they're sad or angry or just in need of some comfort.
When you're wrapped in it he's with you you see. And we've all come to realize that there just couldn't be a better adviser, a better protector, a better soother, a better Grandpa, a better Dad for my family...than my Dad.
As I'm writing this the blanket is covering my eight year old tom cat Tipster. My middle aged boy, my strong tiger, he's been sick and getting sicker....and it's been under the blanket that he's sought solace. If I'm under it he brrrs at me until I give him the 'tiger's' share. He crawls underneath it when it's not being used, his striped head and big green eyes the only visible part of his body as he alternates between watching the room and snoring softly. The other animals stay a respectful distance from him when he's in it, affording him an unusual peace.
I pet his head and I can feel the fever no medicine has been able to cure, the vet saying it's an infection that will have to run it's course.
I'm worried...and yet.... When we're lying under the blanket together, Tipster hidden in the crook of my legs, I feel the comfort that is my Dad. I see the smile, the rare goofy one that always preceded, "Don't worry sis, I've got this.". And after his nap my boy stretches, and slowly makes his way to the food dish. And his fever is lower and he walks a little stronger and he seems to be making a slow progress. And I answer the way I always did, "I know you do Dad." and I mean it.
And the blanket keeps me company.
Here's my Tippy this morning under my Dad's blanket
I looked up at the sound of my mother's voice and my heart leapt into my throat when I saw what she was, so casually, thrusting at me.
My Dad's blanket.
I raised my eyebrows at her, was she sure? She'd never given me anything of his, nothing. No matter how much I'd begged I was the only child who had nothing to remember him by except some old photos and broken brained memories. Nothing that was absolutely...him.
She shook it at me almost violently, "Here take it, TAKE IT!!! I don't want it anymore!". She tossed it at me, I caught it just before it hit the floor, fingers trembling.
I held it to my face, let the tears come. It still smelled of him, I could feel him in it.
I went back to the day it was given to him. Our 70 year old neighbor crocheted it for him as a gift. Not for his birthday, not for any special occasion, just because my Dad was always so nice to her and had admired the special blankets she made. Just because my Dad was a nice man.
My mother thought it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen in her life. A zigzag patterned array of colors from dark green to almost fluorescent red, it seemed to be possessed of every last yarn scrap our neighbor had. At 16 years old I had to agree with her, it was hideous.
I can hear his voice now echoing in my mind as he ran his calloused fingers over the rough loops "It's just what I wanted Helen. I'll use it every day, thank you.". I can see the tears in her eyes as he hugged her and I laugh when I remember how she pshaw'd and waved him away, her Lithuanian accent hoarser and more noticeable than usual "It was nothing Robert. You're a nice man.".
He was a nice man.
As I drove home that afternoon the memories rained down on me.
My Dad wrapped in his blanket when Walter Payton, one of only a few men my Dad considered a hero, scored his 11th touchdown during Super Bowl XX. "Look at him Penny!!! Look at Sweetness RUN!!!"
My Dad wrapped in his blanket at Christmas, watching us kids open our gifts and smiling because he'd been able to bring the holidays to us for one more year. Smiling even though we weren't able to afford to give anything to him. Because his kids were all that really mattered.
My Dad sitting at the breakfast table at 5 a.m., sipping his coffee, the blanket on the back of his chair. Almost as if it kept him company before anyone else woke up.
My Dad rocking my baby daughter. The two of them under the blanket together as he cooed at her and told her she was going to grow up to be something special, just like her Mom.....
My Dad, thin and pale. Asleep under the blanket after his dialysis treatments. The filtered blood made his cancer wracked body so cold, the blanket seemed to be the only thing that warmed him. The strong, brown man I'd grown up with still inside of him, the blanket still kept him company.
The day she gave it to me he'd been gone for eight years.
He's been gone for 15 years now.....
...I still miss him.
When I first brought it home it was "Grandpa's Blanket". It was revered, it held a place of honor on my bed for the first year, even I didn't touch it except to wash it from time to time.
Soon though I found myself holding it to me, seeking his advice, his strength. The first time I let myself snuggle into it I felt closer to him, he was almost sitting beside me. I could hear him whispering "I'm right here sis.".
Now it's become "Mom's Blanket". I use it every day. I watch t.v. in it, I read in it, I snuggle my kids in it, I've made love under it. When I'm angry I scream into it, when I'm sad I allow myself to cry while it comforts me. I've laughed while it held me and allowed it to soothe me when I was feverish.
My kids have come to respect it as almost a guardian. When I'm sick I wake up from naps finding it draped over me. If we're having a family cuddle moment they don't hesitate to grab it. They even use it when they're sad or angry or just in need of some comfort.
When you're wrapped in it he's with you you see. And we've all come to realize that there just couldn't be a better adviser, a better protector, a better soother, a better Grandpa, a better Dad for my family...than my Dad.
As I'm writing this the blanket is covering my eight year old tom cat Tipster. My middle aged boy, my strong tiger, he's been sick and getting sicker....and it's been under the blanket that he's sought solace. If I'm under it he brrrs at me until I give him the 'tiger's' share. He crawls underneath it when it's not being used, his striped head and big green eyes the only visible part of his body as he alternates between watching the room and snoring softly. The other animals stay a respectful distance from him when he's in it, affording him an unusual peace.
I pet his head and I can feel the fever no medicine has been able to cure, the vet saying it's an infection that will have to run it's course.
I'm worried...and yet.... When we're lying under the blanket together, Tipster hidden in the crook of my legs, I feel the comfort that is my Dad. I see the smile, the rare goofy one that always preceded, "Don't worry sis, I've got this.". And after his nap my boy stretches, and slowly makes his way to the food dish. And his fever is lower and he walks a little stronger and he seems to be making a slow progress. And I answer the way I always did, "I know you do Dad." and I mean it.
And the blanket keeps me company.
Here's my Tippy this morning under my Dad's blanket