Dear Teppe (Baby Blanket),
This is how the story goes: When I was three years old I walked into the kitchen and dropped you into the trash can. “I don’t need this anymore,” I told my mother. She rescued you, washed you, and put you away in my baby box, but I never asked for you or sucked my fingers (which I used to do) again.
When I picture that kitchen, I picture the breakfast bar with the kitchen on one side and the TV room on the other. There was a long, brown couch. I remember the Muppets on the TV. I remember sitting at the counter with my friend, towels wrapped around our heads to give us long, beautiful hair. I remember sitting there eating many meals. Mixing jello. Getting a dose of cough medicine. Drawing Strawberry Shortcake and Holly Hobby. I remember helping with a pecan pie for Father’s Day. I remember asking my mother to lift the phone down off the wall so I could call and see if my friend wanted to play.
I do not at all, not even a little bit, remember discarding you like so much used trash. I don’t remember a time when I was that decisive, or declarative, or independent. When I ever said no to a comfort.
I have left friends, though, I suppose. I have left them behind. Never without looking back, but I guess they wouldn’t have fit in a trash can.
I’m sorry,
-e.