I’m sitting in the corner of the kitchen, snuggled up with Harley as he sleeps. The constant rhythm of his chest expanding and contracting is comforting. He is warm and familiar.
With me as always is my pink blanket. I don’t go anywhere without it. Well, since my white one was taken from me anyway. Mom said she’d had enough of it. It was so tattered and full of holes she said. So away it went.
What was a young boy to do? Knowing that his favourite possession was never to return? I took my sister’s blanket. Now it’s my favourite too.