The following is a short story that I wrote about 8 years ago. It was accepted for publication about a year ago, but after reading the contract, I decided not to proceed with the publisher. I would love feedback (positive and negative!) Thanks!Something Special
There wasn’t anything unique about it. The edges were rounded and the material a common, waffled white. It came folded neatly in a cream colored box, wrapped in crisp tissue paper and sealed with a simple pink bow. On the card, the words “May it provide comfort” were written alone in delicate calligraphy.
Mother took it to be embroidered. My initials, meant to have been sewn in a pretty pink, were accidentally done in blue. Never finding the time to have it re-stitched, thus they stayed.
At first, the blanket was nothing but a source of warmth on the coldest of afternoon strolls. Then it made its way to naptime. To bedtime. Then eventually snuck into my daily routine.
It became the knapsack for picnics in a make-believe park. It was the sea for my adventurous days at the family room beach. The tent for my camping trips to the basement. Even the veil for my teddy bear wedding in the backyard. Most of all, it became my best friend. My partner in crime. Ultimately, my comfort.
As I grew, I no longer needed my blanket in my daily activities. At sun-up, I would tuck it neatly into my dresser drawer. At days end, it was the first thing I would grab before slipping under the covers and into dreamland.
Every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of my blanket and notice the way the waffled white was no longer crisp and clean. It had stains from days of play and snack time spills that mother could not remove. It had a few holes. It had a few rips. And if you looked very closely, you could see where a few tears had fallen and left their mark. But most of the time, I didn’t even notice its imperfections. No matter what, it was still my most favorite thing. My flawless source of comfort.
If that blanket could talk it could tell a million stories. It could tell you how I cried myself to sleep my first night at college. It could tell you the secrets it heard tucked in my pillowcase, as my roommates shared gossip over an all night game of truth or dare. It could tell you how fast my heart was beating as I lay in bed after first kissing my future husband that cool night in October. It could tell you my prayers. It could tell you everything about me. But it won’t.
Today, that blanket by appearance is nothing but something old. But on this special day of mine, this special day where I am the one that is in crisp white, it is more than something old. It is something borrowed. Borrowed from the depths of an amazing journey through childhood, adolescence and womanhood. The initials on it, once meant to be pink, couldn’t be more perfectly something blue. And something new. Its job of comfort provider will now be replaced by a man to whom I will give my soul. It’s purpose now to be a good luck charm.
As I walk down the aisle, my blanket secretly pinned neatly under the layers and layers of tulle and satin that makes up my dress, I can feel its soft waffle white. I am comforted. I am ready. I am lucky.
