The night after I was born, before I learned to be cold, my mother gave me a blanket. It was blue
and white and cotton. It was the size of a good-sized flag. I called it blanket. I kept it with me.

Later when they had to leave, and had to take me with them, my mother turned to me and said
I will cut your blanket in half. One half will be your blanket. The other half will be your traveling

blanket. I called it my traveling blanket. I kept it with me and it worked. Later when I had to meet a girl
because the girl had asked me whether or not I wanted to meet a girl, the girl turned to me and said:

I will cut your traveling blanket in half. One half will be your new traveling blanket. The other half
will be our dating blanket. So she ripped out a seam and cut along the edge to make a new blanket,

blue and white and cotton, a scrap of a blanket no bigger than a folding napkin. I called it my dating
blanket. It was the size of a washcloth. I kept it with me and I think it must have worked. Later when we

knew we were on the wrong path she turned to me, as if I spoke through her, and said: I will cut your loving
blanket in half. One half will be our fighting blanket. The other half will be your aging blanket. I called it

my aging blanket. It was the size of a stamp. It was blue and white and cotton. And then I must have lost it.