The retirement home residents were gathering in the large room with the decorated Christmas tree in the corner. Some of them were in wheelchairs like he was. Others were aided by walkers or canes. Still others shuffled unaided to a padded chair, grabbed an armrest, and slowly lowered themselves. The younger, more spry caregivers circulated song sheets. And there was singing or humming or croaking. They even sang his favourite carol, "Oh, come all thee faithful, joyful and..." He still had a good voice, a strong voice, a melodious voice--a deep baritone that he imagined shook the room. Cherry red punch in clear plastic cups and shortbread cookies cut into snowflakes were served. The partiers were encouraged to indulge. He took two cookies.
The pretty blonde caregiver... What was her name? Was it... It... Holly? Maybe... He decided that Holly would do. Holly, with a Santa hat on her head, pulled presents out from under the tree. Depositing a wrapped box on his lap, Holly told him, "From your family." and gave him a peck on the cheek.
His family--sons, daughters, grandchildren, and... He had a vague memory of a great-grandchild or many two--were flung like snowballs across the country. Sometimes he wondered if they thought of him. But they did, they had. The proof was on his lap.
His arthritic hands tore off the wrapping paper. Someone had used too much tape. The cardboard box unwrapped, he prepared for more tearing but someone had the good sense to put the tape away. He flipped back the flaps on the box and peeked inside. What was that shade? Periwinkle blue. Was it a cardigan? What a thoughtful, welcomed gift. He always felt a draft.
Holly was back beside him. She helped him pull the sweater--. No, it was a blanket. She helped him slowly pull the blanket out of the box.
A blanket. As a newborn, he'd been wrapped in a receiving blanket. There were pictures in his photo album. His earliest memory was of a blanket. He'd called it Blankie. Thumb in mouth, he toddled off to bed, dragging Blankie behind him. Late at night, if the monsters came, he pulled Blankie over his head, and feeling safe, he drifted off to sleep. During the day, he threw Blankie over two chairs. He spent hours in his secret hideaway. He was seldom without Blankie. He carried her everywhere.
Until... He remembered the day his mother informed him, "A big boy like you can't carry a blanket to kindergarten." But she added with a wink. "You can carry a piece." The silver chrome scissors flashed in the sunlight as Blankie was reduced to a small square of flannel, bordered on two sides by silk. He carried the transformed Blankie in a pant pocket. And so when the other boys were too loud... And so when the teacher was mean... He shoved his hand into his pocket and rubbed the flannel, the silk between his fingers. With Blankie in his pocket, he stood straighter and held his head higher.
He kept the blanket square in his pocket for years--through elementary, junior high, and even high school. Entering the workforce, he put, by this point, more gray than light blue square in his wallet. He only pulled it out when he was alone. It was on the table beside him giving him the confidence he needed to phone her. It was in his wallet reminding him to be a gentleman when he took her on their first date. The day he married her, he took the square out of his wallet and threw it away. Men don't need blankies, he told himself. Each of his children was wrapped in a receiving blanket. He had pictures in his album. And he told them stories about his adventures with Blankie--and they always begged for more.
The periwinkle blanket free of the box, Holly helped him drape it over his lap. "Happy Holidays," she said.
"Happy Holidays," he replied. He ran the flannel, the silk between his fingers and he felt happy, he felt remembered, he felt loved.
Christmas Eve on this blog...
Listening to...
