They go by many names: afghan, duvet, comforter, patchwork quilt, covers, bedspreads. Call them what you like, you will simply never find me sitting on a couch or in an oversized chair without one. They are my own grown-up version of the trusty childhood security blanket. Dragging in the dirt my blanket chronicles the adventures of the day: an irregular blotch from enjoying homemade applesauce, a red stain from spilled nail polish. I am Linus; a blanket is my constant ally. Blankets never tell you that your clothes don’t match or that your makeup is smudged. They disguise that extra donut I ate last night or the fact that I haven’t shaved my legs in a week. My blankets sit quietly by, sometimes for days or even weeks, but still keep me warm no matter what condition they are in or how long we have been apart. Like old friends, we pick up where we left off. Even in the heat of the summer, I am loyal to my comrade. A paradox of the material world, the most unkempt blanket is the most cherished.
My favorite, a faded blue and white patchwork quilt my mom made for my dad. Thirty years ago it was brightly colored scraps of fabric, lovingly pieced together to create an impenetrable comfort zone. Underneath such a blanket, I feel safe and at ease, often accompanied by an engaging book. Now this well-loved blanket is threadbare, and yet softer than Egyptian cotton. Reminiscent of nights curled up in front of a flickering fireplace. Creating a soft cotton island in the grass, they are perfect for stargazing or watching fireworks burst in July. Draped peacefully over my dad’s sleeping form in quiet nights broken by his boisterous snoring. This exhausted blanket lies gently folded, draped over an easy chair, proudly displayed in the living room. Always ready to sympathize, wipe away tears of laughter, and soothe the aches of the heart. It also makes for an oversized blue and white absorbent tissue during a heart- wrenching film.
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