I pretended the threat to the tee- sheet unfolded across the vertical length of the couch and there, in my hands, clutching the lover's gift. The irony that I might be body wrapped-warm in a matrimony of each loving stitch- a crocheted quilt for a love-past when love itself spilt tirelessly over. I, now clutching not the gifts-intended, for the recipient slept hard in the bedroom with the baby at the far end of the opposite hall, but hard onto their heathered-blue and white shared trinket.
Under the queen-like size blanket, one much larger than I had ever stitched for self or lover alike, I felt enveloped in their darkness between. Had she loved him more than I? I didn't care. I loved that he had been loved hard. Loved through every stitch. And, after they had married and done divorced themselves rightly from their shared history, I appreciate their love; their display of common experience reminds me of a time littered with another happiness far before this.
Although we have all since been moved from the show of it, the sweet display of stitch after stitch, I am kept warm under the blanket of lust and circumstance, promise and regret. Is there a love better defined than by this?
Though I made not a single stitch, I too have loved hard, been, too, compelled to create many homemade gifts. I have lusted for and treaded badly through circumstance, been tempted to make and receive promises absent of foundation and regretted much of the very lack in intention. I hope that the many other women who now warm the beds of lovers I have also loved, they might be one day kept warmed by a word I have written, hummed to a tune to a song I penned- I hope they might appreciate their lover's ability to have and to yet still, inspire love.
(An attempt to articulate the irony of sleeping on the couch -and all the loaded meaning therein, under the blanket handmade by your partner's former lover.)
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