A Blanket by Kadie Jones

 

That’s all that was left,
to show she had even been there in the first place.
The red plaid fleece and Sherpa sat on the bed all by its lonesome,
to remind him that no matter what, that would be her home.
Some people leave their toiletries.
You know, the ones that you can just pack in an overnight bag:
A toothbrush, a tube of mascara, a stick of deodorant.
But she didn’t.
She took those with her.
They didn't mean as much to her as those two pieces of material. 
She left that piece of material draped across the foot of the bed.
It was her signature, the one that reminded him of her.
The nights they spent laughing and holding each other.
She left that red plaid and white sherpa laying there without a second thought.
It showed him that she was coming back. 
It showed him that she cared.
It showed him that she was there even when she wasn’t. 
It wasn’t much, just two pieces of material put together.
Something that if you were in the store and walked by it,
you wouldn’t give it a second look.
It didn’t seem like much,
but to them,
to them it meant that he would always be her home.