The Little Quilt

The blanket folded neatly at the bottom of my shelf is a patchwork one. It’s pieced together from tidy squares: bright pinks and pastel blues and little boxy animals. Coloring the very geometric loin’s mane, is a discreet dose of yellow. The blanket has been folded and dusty for quite some time. It’s been canonized into an emblem of innocence, rather then tossed carelessly over the bed like the honest breathing thing. But I like it there, sitting on my shelf. I smile whenever I catch a glimpse of those bright faded colors all tucked away. Dusty things are often treated with care; I suppose that it why they become dusty. They’re little pieces of ourselves worth saving, worth watching as time plays its slow game.