For a Little While

She pulls the blanket tighter. Strange how a thin layer of cotton can impart a sense of safety. No reason bright coloured cloth should protect us, yet we see it constantly; prayer flags waving in gentle breezes, red ribbons hung in green tears, red string on a sub-browned wrist. A blanket tugged tight over her head, only a mop of hair peeking out, can protect her from more than monsters in the dark. It protects from dawns come too soon, from hard truths that must be faced. It can ward off crying children and unpaid bills, an empty seat at the dinner table; every unanswered phone call slips away under the strength of a blanket. And a quilt! Or, oh, woven with a mother’s love, that can fend off secrets untold, even the kind that fester, yes. It can hide you from inevitabilities, from grief as deep as the pit of your stomach, from obligations and observations and freshly pressed black dresses.

But only for a little while.

She pulls the blankets tighter, pretends the sun hasn’t risen yet.

But only for a little while.

Image by April Milne.