Smiler’s photographs (I called her that; she had a lovely smile and smiled a lot, this old woman whose age I now approach – not there yet – practically immobile, she was, and I dash this, a mode I keep on falling into).
Histories mixed upon that blanket.
My mother was so pleased with them, two alike.
She had inherited old grey and brown and beige – I’ve said this before – from her mother who –
These, with pink as a frame top and bottom to their grey.
So new those pink stripes made the blankets look.
So woolly and warm and soft, not scratchy at all. I sometimes sleep directly under the blanket itself and not the sheet first. Somehow, the blanket itself, just one of them, gives me the correct amount of warmth over my burning-hot body, enough to keep the cool of the room from me but let my own body-heat through.
This osmosis – my favourite word – this osmosis . . .
But a mixture of personal stories there as weft and warp, my own joining too.
My mother – and letters of condolence at Smiler’s brother’s death . . .
This – an imperfection that attempts to say something.