I gave my son a new blanket for his birthday. He always wakes up a lot earlier than I do, then sits under his old blanket and watches TV. The old pink blanket is synthetic as he’s allergic for almost anything you can think of. It has burn holes in it from when he hung it over a lamp. It smells of him, even after I’ve washed it. It has gone a brownish pink over time.
He has tested his new blanket and likes it. But today he carefully says, “maybe the pink one is better mum.”
“Tony used to always sit on the pink blanket,” he says.
He was allergic to Tony, we had to give Tony away. He cried and cried and cried when we did.
I think of the black boots that my ex once bought for me in Paris. They lasted surprisingly long but are now wearing out. Soon, I’ll have to get rid of them.
“The nice thing about the new blanket is that it will collect new memories,” I tell my son.