Not That One

She asked for the good blanket.

I said no. I didn't say why.

She went to bed. I heard the hall light

click off. I heard her sigh

once, maybe. Then quiet.

I'm on the couch now with it across my knees.

I pulled it from storage in October

when the heat was out. A freeze,

three days, and it's been

on my side of the couch since then.

She's taken it twice.

I moved it back again

both times without explaining.

It came from my childhood room.

The binding's fraying at one corner.

There's a stain shaped like a plum

or a leaf, I can never decide.

I know every inch by heart.

She's six. She wanted to be warm.

I'm sitting in the dark.