A Symbol that We're Out of Time

My son has been dragging the same blanket around for 7 years. (well, I did wash it every now and again.) It's a sled for his toys. A launch pad for his rockets. It's a fun way to carry blocks. It went to school with him the first day. It's a tent, a rag, a comfort. He always knows where it is. When he noticed a hole in it, he asked what would be involved in the repairs. I can't repair a knitted blanket, not the way he wants.

Still. My heart was as heavy as his because this blanket has an amazing story that started before he was born.

I was just pregnant. Just. maybe a month or two. It was Friday and I was looking forward to the weekend because we were leaving right after work for something and wouldn't be home until Sunday. I don't remember what but that much I remember.

My neighbor called me at work. (Everyone is my neighbor, I live in a town with 18 houses.) So anyway, she asked me to swing by after work because she had made something for my baby. "Babe isn't due for months yet and I really don't have time tonight, so why don't we schedule a coffee." Nope. It could not wait. She wouldn't hear of it. I had to come pick this baby gift up today. End of story. She was so determined to get me there, she ordered groceries and asked if I'd be a dear and drop them off.

Sigh.

I did bring her groceries by and I accepted the beautiful knitted white blanket she handed me but I felt extremely guilty because I couldn't stay and chat. I was also very confused as to why she was giving me a baby gift before I had a baby to wrap it in. Still. She insisted. She said that it wasn't my blanket, she was giving it to my baby so I couldn't refuse it.

She said she worked on it all night to make sure I had it today. Today. Really, I knew better than to argue it with her so I promised to swing by Sunday as soon as I was back. She didn't look too worried and I got the impression she was pretty sure I was going to flake out on that Sunday coffee-- which made me feel even worse for walking away with the blanket I didn't deserve.

When I did get home Sunday, there was a flood of cars at her place so I didn't go by. Still. The guilt was eating at me because I felt like I'd accepted a gift and fled. Later that day, I learned that she'd passed away Friday night in her sleep.

She was gone and my last moments with her had been rushed, taking a gift she worked on for a baby that wasn't born yet.

Guilt twinkled with a million other emotions that made me sick. Did she know she was dying? Was this why she insisted on giving me the blanket that day of all days?

I rarely wish to go back and relive a moment, but if I could redo that one, I would. I would spent more time chatting-- so what if I was late for something so important I can't remember it 8 years later. I remember her. I remember that conversation. Which means it was more important and it was where my heart truly was.

I placed the blanket on a shelf in babe's room and vowed to never let my babe touch it. It was a blanket I would cherish forever.

But. It wasn't my blanket. She'd made that clear and my son was about to remind of that.The first time I wrapped him it, he slept better. Well, as a new mother, I wasn't about to question magic like that.

It soon became a necessity in his crib. Then somehow I was trucking it to town with us.Before I knew it, he was dragging it around. At first it was cute and I told myself she'd loved to see him with the blanket. Soon I discovered that it was his and there was no way in hell that I was taking it from him. That beautiful knit blanket followed him everywhere. He ran it through the dirt. It waited on the floor while he bathed. Well, once it went in with him. He stood in front of the washing machine while it bathed. It was weaved with pink and blue splashes that he liked.

There was one identical to it in the closet only it was purple. He liked that one, too. But not as much as the white one. The white one was his. The purple one was its buddy.

At seven, he should be over the blanket, but he's spending more and more time with it these days. He folds it carefully before he leaves for school. I'm not allowed to wash it anymore. I see it in his eyes. He thinks his blanket is dying. The hole has grown, the fabric is growing weaker. He's loosing a friend that has always been there waiting for him since before he was born. A friend that's come in handy countless times.

It's just a blanket, yet... it's not. Ya know? For both of us now, it's a symbol of time that we can't get back.

You have things in your life that remind you how fleeting time really is?