The
Blanket
It
first came
into
my possession
the
night a tall bartender
from
one of the ale houses
along
the Main Line
out
of Philadelphia
visited
my bachelor pad
along
with his girlfriend
to
meet my fiancée.
Made
of mohair, it had taken
many
a moonlit sleigh ride
through
rural Pennsylvania
on
his grandmother’s lap.
It
fit perfectly on the floor
in
front of the fireplace
where
the four of us
lingered
through a night
of
flickering flames
toasting
expensive wines.
It
cushioned the hard ground
beneath
bronze-colored oaks
along
the Pennsylvania turnpike
during
roadside breaks
from
long drives to Ohio
to
visit expecting in-laws.
Only
the truck-tops were visible
as
they zoomed by over the mound
of
third trimester pregnancy
and
later, beneath those same trees
traffic
sights and sounds faded
as
our first son frolicked between us.
In
California it served
as a
giant beach towel
for
our family of five—
a
refuge from sand fleas
and
the sting of jellyfish.
We
stored it in the back well
of
the Ford station wagon
next
to the spare tire.
Each
of our three boys
probably
used it
when they borrowed the car
during
their dating years.
I
last saw it just before A.O.A.
backed
out of the driveway.
We
sold our station wagon
to
him for just one dollar.
He
was a homeless alcoholic.
When
he signed the pink slip
we
asked him about his name;
he
smiled and said it was short
for
‘Alive-on-Arrival.’
Now
it was spread out
in
the back of his new wagon
as a
makeshift bedroom—
and that is pretty much all I
know
about
that soft piece of mohair
and its loving history.
and its loving history.