Each time I return home from college now, I am comforted to find that not much has changed. The same blankets from my youth still draped gently over chairs and couches, more faded than ever, yet still ready for a spontaneous nap or a mindless film. At my house there are no blankets tucked away in cupboards or hidden on shelves in a closet. We are what we call “blankie people.” Everyone gets their own blanket for lounging, since we are all blanket hogs and can’t possibly share. I can still curl up with any of the blankets and drift softly into the dream world of reminiscence. I close my eyes and I am convinced that I can smell my dad’s aftershave and hear him snore so loudly that he wakes himself up. My eyes flutter and I am launched back into the present. The walls at my house wouldn’t have much to say, but the blankets, the most prized of my possessions, they could speak volumes.
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I am also a "blankie' person. I like to sit with a book and a cup of tea on the sofa and it just doesn't feel the same without a blankie. I inherited a very skittish cat, Maggie, who would never sit on anyone's lap. I was given a down lap blanket and after awhile there she was, on the blanket. Now when I'm done for the day she goes and stands by the sofa and looks at me, waiting for the blankie (and me) to arrive so she can sit and feel comfortable for awhile. The other cat now comes over and boots her off if he can, so the blankie is prize territory. Who knew one blankie could do so much?
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