just like papa bear and mama bear, mom’s porridge was always too hot or too cold – if you replace the word “porridge” with the word “everything.” owing to causes both psychic and physical, i knew she could never be comfortable; but the porridge was always to blame for this condition, never her. down deep, of course, mom was aware that it was her thermostat which couldn’t maintain an acceptable climate.
i did not really want to share my favorite blanket with mom. begrudging generosity was the best i could manage when attempting to solve the impossible – an expectation which she seemed to have of me, despite my clear inability to find my keys. her apartment was so cold, she said. i would try not to roll my eyes when she was actually looking right at me.
when mom told me how wonderful the mohair blanket was, i didn’t show the pleasure it gave me to hear her admit that i had found a solution for her. featherlight and so very, very warm, those miraculous mohair goats were born to keep her fragile bones warm without too much weight.
the blanket was in the trunk of my car, not on her bed, when she died; nonetheless, it was one thing i swore i could not use again. too much her in it, i thought. best just to let it go. today was going to be the day. i learned differently, however.
i wish it had been me, keeping her warm, a cozy shoulder, a comforting cuddle. but i sent my blanket instead. it was four months, today, that our last chance to cuddle in this life came and went, and as i held our blanket i felt you there again, and i was happy to feel like crying.