blanket - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The blanket was art, a creation in vibrant wool, an expression of nana's love. When Nate watched television I could see his emotions by the way he held it, the sensations of pleasure and tension told in how he either held it softly in his hands or else pushed his fingers though the holes, twisting and grasping. When he was happy it was his covering for games of "ghost," or else it was his invisibility shield. Some days, when it rained, it was our indoor picnic blanket. Other times it was his cape when there was superhero work to be done. It was his best toy, his comfort, his woven rainbow and keeper of his memories. And as he grew Nate would once in a while comment that he had thought the blanket was bigger and ask if it had shrunk somehow.
The knitted blanket is a glorious expression of my grandmother's soul; it is the colours of her dreams woven in delicate and loving hands. She would sit in that old rocking chair, hands moving, brain at peace, and from those delicate fingers would come the blankets. As a child I saw her as a magician of sorts and we played long games as rainbow-ghosts with her creations.
The blanket radiates my own warmth back within and I let my love do the same. I love everyone and everything, yet sometimes I need to keep it inside so I can keep warm enough. I let my fingers feel the strong fabric that is my cocoon for this night and sense my folded wings strengthen.
The blanket is woven with a mother's love, the strands the perfect hue of petals that come in the warmer months. And so the blanket is a sort of sunshine in the darkness, those strands holding me as the softest of arms.
The blanket is thin and the night is cold. As I wrap it around my shoulders I know it is better than nothing but it fails to reach my toes, which sit like ice-blocks on the parquet floor. I can't sleep tonight, not now the furniture is gone. I can't get over the looks on the bailiff's face as he took it away, for what? To sell it for pennies at the thrift place or whatever they do? He tossed this square of fleece off the back of my favourite armchair onto the filthy sidewalk without a second thought. There's still a boot-print on it from where he took a step backwards, treading on it like it was nothing. I remove it from my shoulders and try to rub the mud from the delicate peach print. I need to erase that man and his cold face right off it. Then I ball it up so it's huggable and squish it into my stomach, arms wrapped around tight. My shoulders and back begin to feel the chill at once but I feel less wretched. Tomorrow I leave with the blanket and my bus pass. I'm going home to Dad.
The once plush velvet is now thread bare in patches but I could never throw it out. Ever worn section was made by me rubbing my thumb and forefinger over its soft surface. This was my princess blanket, royal purple and the perfect size for a pre-schooler. Now of course it's ludicrously small, not much more than a rag I guess. But when things get bad I pull it from its secret hide-y-hole at the back of my closet and find the thickest part to rub softly. It even smells like my childhood. Then I can drift off to my mother's voice and the smell of my father's baking. I am safe back there in the past and this inconsequential rag is my only way back there. If this house ever burnt to the ground it is the only thing I would take. Well, that and my photo album. The fire can eat the rest.
The bed had been covered with a blanket of hand-knitted squares of bright wool.
My fingers become entwined in the woollen blanket, gripping it as if it were more substantial than a square of multicoloured yarn, as if it could keep me from tumbling into the abyss. But as the flames engulfed my cottage, scorching my skin and singeing the surrounding trees, what I needed wasn't a teddy bear substitute. I needed Greg to be here. I needed real comfort, strong arms and reassuring words. I needed platitudes however empty, because if he said them I would believe it. Then from the lane comes the sound of sirens and tires throwing up spray from the puddled, rain-kissed lane. The cavalry are here to save the ashes. I look down at the blanket and release my hold of it. The once perfect knit now has finger holes, it is stretched out of shape and there is a singed portion. The charred wool stirs a memory of stamping a flame from it. Funny. The recollection seems far away. Then a gloved hand is on my shoulder and there is a tender voice but I can't focus on the words.