Sitting on the floor with my nephew. He is all round pink belly and soft baby curls and giggles. He indicates he wants me to throw his blankets on him, so I flip them up one by one and drop them on his wriggling body.

It takes him about thirty seconds to get bored, and go heels-pounding across the wooden floor to find something more interesting.

I laugh and watch him go. He's a lovely boy.

I look at the blanket in my hand. It looks....familiar. I flip it over. It is familiar. I look at the embroidery on the corner. My brother's name, fuzzy with age, and more recently, my nephew's name. I recognize the inelegant embroidered text as my mother's.

"Is this your baby blanket?" I ask my brother.

~

About a year ago. A wednesday. My phone wrings in the middle of the day. It's my parents' number, and my heart immediately begins beating. My mother never calls on a Wednesday.

"Hello?"

"Oh hi honey," my mom says, casually.

"Jesus, mom. What's wrong? Why are you calling on a wednesday?"

"Oh I was just cleaning out the spare room and I found your baby quilt. Can I throw it out?"

"What?! No! No you can't!"

That quilt, each square made by one of her friends when I was born, one by my grandmother, the quilt that I slept under the entire time I lived at home. That old rag.

"It's not like you use it anymore," she says. I can hear a weird delight that she's gotten a rise out of me, but I can also hear she actually does want to throw it out. The idea makes me feel sick.

"Put it on a shelf," I tell her. "I'll come pick it up."

And I do.

~

"Yeah," my brother says. "Mom gave it to N when he was born."

I look at the quilt in my hands. It is in worse condition than mine, and is smaller, and less elaborate. But mine was the one she wanted to throw out.

Suddenly, the sun is on my face again, the sounds of Paris, the glint of the Seine. I can hear my mother's voice all over again: "I don't think you should ever have children."

"Mom called me last year and wanted to throw out my baby quilt," my mouth says before I can stop it.

"Well...was it in worse condition?" one of the guests asks.

Oh no. I forgot there were guests. I've aired some family laundry, and made everything uncomfortable again.

"No," I say, mouth twisting a bit. "It's okay. Our mother just has a few....quirks."

I change the subject, and try to stick to generic topics after that.

It was a nice thanksgiving.

.

Rosie

Before&After