Melissa Hunt

It used to be a quilt. 5’x7’ with beautiful squares of fabric in reds, yellows, oranges, and golds. My great grandmother made it for me when I was born. I don’t have a memory without it. Our existence, my blanket and mine, happened simultaneously.

An inanimate object was my first champion. True, it couldn’t give me praises or tell me everything was going to be ok, but it didn’t need to. It could hug me tightly if I wrapped it around my body. It kept me warm when I was cold. It made hard surfaces soft. It gave me courage when I felt scared. It dried my tears when I was sad.

As happens in life, time got to my blanket. The gorgeous quilt slowly became smaller and smaller with every wash. The fabric frayed and disintegrated until all that was left were strings and fibers tied together in knots to keep it in one piece. What looked like a rag to some remained a prized possession to me.

For years well after childhood, I kept it hidden away from judgment as I went through life’s ups and downs, but it was always there. Even after I got married, it stayed under my pillow for me to hold when adulthood overwhelmed.

I’m now 43, and my blanket rests in my dresser in a kind of stasis. When I come across it and run my fingers over its knots, its power to calm and soothe is immediately restored. A champion-in-waiting still.