The Blanket

I began this blanket
while waiting for my daughter to arrive.

The stitches were almost perfect.
The blanket wasn’t.

Too narrow.
The border all wrong.

Frustrated,
I folded it into a bag
and forgot where I had left it.

Almost a decade later,
packing my belongings
after a marriage that wasn’t meant to be,
I found it again.

Held it.
Remembered.
Cried.

Then placed it back
inside the same bag.

Not yet.

Almost another decade passed.

Another move.
Another beginning.
Another box.

The same blanket.

Again,
I found it.
Held it.
Remembered.
Cried.

Then placed it back
inside the same bag.

Not yet.

Almost another decade passed.

This time,
I wasn’t looking for the blanket.

It found me.

Inside the bag,
inside the box,
looking exactly as it had—
the day I discarded it—
for its imperfections.

The time felt right.

I didn’t try to finish it.

I unravelled it,
stitch by stitch,
metre by metre.

Hours spent undoing
what another version of me had made.

There were no tears.

The wool hadn’t changed.

I had.

Soon,
these same strands will become
a blanket for my daughter’s child.

This wasn’t the end of the blanket.

It was another beginning.