. . . the photographs over the old blanket that I have spread my bed with, that a deliberate act but belonging to another story; I remember when my mother bought those blankets, two of them now spread upon my bed under which I sleep at night thinking memories may permeate them and into my dreams.

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.