Rough Insulation

The air in the hallway is a thin, blue knife.

I see my breath bloom and vanish

against the ceiling light.

The cedar chest is heavy, the lid

groaning on its hinges like a waking dog.

I pull the wool quilt out,

sharp with the chemical sting of mothballs.

I find the jagged tear in the satin binding

where I used to hook my big toe when I was ten.

The weight of it settles over my knees,

scratchy and yellowed,

holding the heat of every winter I didn't freeze.