Ok, so I’m using a prompt for today.

What was your most precious childhood possession?

I feel as kids that we get overly attached to stuff. Even as adults, the Mercedes car is the old teddy bear that you wouldn’t share with the sibling.

The thing that I was overly attached to was…a green ripped up blanket. This blanket was given to me by maternal grandmother Lucy, which somehow we called (oo-she). It had two yellow lines at each end.

I would drag this thing everywhere. Its softness probably helped facilitate the following relationship: girl and her blanket. When friends come over, I made sure we used this blanket to make forts with. The blanket was my shadow – though I wouldn’t have considered myself as Pig-Pen from Peanuts Gang because of forced daily baths. Although same, we were pair. Because this blanket was bigger than me, well, I would step on it a lot; it would rip, and rip. My paternal grandmother, Mary-Belle, fixed it many a times, until one day when my Mom come home with the expected blanket.

Mom: Natalie.

Me: Yes, Mom.

Mom: You remember the blanket we sent to grandmother to mend.

Me: Uh-ha.

Mom: Well (pulling it out of a plastic bag) I don’t think you can really use it anymore.

Standing in our hallway, there in my hands was the blanket in its distorted new shape. The top of it was fine, the sides and the bottom looked warped from the sewing of rips.

My grandmother Mary-belle had so many successes fixing it – I kind thought the fixing could last forever that way. Harsh cold of truth finally came that day. The initial disappointment was expected. I kept it in my closet for a while, but then one day, I threw it away.

I know the book, Velveteen Rabbit, where the more beloved a toy is, the shabbier it will look, and then there would be the possibility that it could become real. I am not sure how that applies to blankets. If that blanket wanted to become real, I hoped it did, because I really felt I loved it.