Linus and his attachment to his blanket draws laughter, but C. and her blanket wraps us in thoughts of our relationship to our grief. Linus carries one, too  breaks our hearts and at the same time draws our breath for the beauty of writing.

I have a blanket, too, though it does not swaddle my much loved son. This blanket surrounds me and I know it as grief. I fall asleep under it every night and in the morning, I wake up with it tangled around my body and limbs. During the day, I carry it around, cloak myself in it because, sadly, it is the only tie I have to the son that should be here with me right now. But he’s not. It’s the only fitting replacement I have found, even though it is not a decent substitute at all.

Some days it merely trips me up. Others it keeps those who love me at bay; its continued existence leaving them puzzled or uncomfortable or unsure of what to say. And while I would like to believe its presence offers me some protection, some semblance of comfort and security, it really offers me nothing at all. Just a tangible *thing* I can hang on to that can offer evidence of the deep and unwavering love I have for him; a love I will always have for him even though I can never bring him home.