Anne’s Blanket
It rests across her knees like a small country of colour,
bright petals and woven birds rising against the dim room.
Threads hum with the warmth of Guatemalan sun,
a warmth she keeps close as her body cools.
Perhaps she loves her blanket because it remembers for her:
markets ringing with laughter, hands that wove stories
into every stitched flower.
Its colours refuse to fade, even as hers begin to evanesce.
The blanket carries the weight her body cannot:
memory, defiance, a kind of soft courage.
When she drifts, it anchors her.
When she wakes, it greets her like an old friend.
In its weave she no doubt hears life rustling –
animals scuttling, birds lifting, exotic flowers blooming still,
a world that keeps moving
and holds her gently as she approaches the ultimate standstill.
If you feel like keeping track of Anne’s cancer journey, I’m chronicling it in prose and poetry here:
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/news/
