Hand-stitched quilts and faded letters lay in the dusty boxes of my attic. The yellowed tape flakes when pulled open.
Fragmented memories flutter in the dust motes and cloud my mind like tangled wildflowers.
Your long fingers. Your knitting needle. Dried lavender. Rose gardens bereft with aphids.
The plastic smell of your favorite lawn chair.
Hair curlers and embroidered handkerchiefs.
You’re lost in time and space, but I have your nose and my daughter has your boisterous laugh, so somehow we found you, too.
And the blanket smells like lavender.
And your “L’s” look like mine.
Last night I talked to you in a dream.
Tonight your blanket lays on my bed because you were worried I was cold.
Hipstory 