Security Blanket

(from Within My Illusions )

When I was born,
my grandfather gave me a blanket,
soft flannel, quilted in satin,
the color and feel of a pale, pink rose.
Stitching in the center
outlined the shape of a teddy bear.
The border was edged in creamy white.

When I could speak,
I named the blanket Mercy.
I was three.
How could I know what mercy was,
or the ways in which I would need it?

Mercy would be my cocoon,
my womb, when the world inside me felt too big
and my strength to withstand it too small.

I rested Mercy against my cheek,
let her gentle presence sink into my heart.
I rubbed her edges between my fingers,
like a meditation.
Her cloth graced my lips,
a prayer,
a relief
from feelings
I didn’t know how to speak.

I slept with Mercy every night,
and the space she held for me expanded
even as she grew smaller,
receding with time,
like the tree in the story
I often read with her,

until one day she was mistakenly
sent to a hotel laundry
with the rest of the bed linens.
I was fourteen.
I sobbed as I heard
the resignation in my dad’s voice
as he spoke to the housekeeping department,
asked them if they could

Please. Look. One. More. Time

for a blanket,
once pink,
now beige,
edges frayed,
torn and laced
in spots where fingers
had worn through,
where mercy reigned.