The blanket smells like the old place—

The blanket smells like the old place—

coffee stain on the nylon's face,

my father's mug, his careless hand

one morning. Now I understand

it's marked forever by his touch,

this small stain that meant so much

without him knowing.

I was nine. The storm came blowing

through the windows, shaking glass,

so I hid underneath this mass

of cloth so thin the lightning

showed right through, still frightening,

but I stayed under anyway.

My mother's moving. I have to say

what happens to this thing—keep or lose?

The binding's frayed. I have to choose.

I fold it once, twice, small

enough to carry. After all,

some things are light as nothing,

yet they're still something.