gosolowithamy

The long hand was racing; there was no other explanation for the amount of time it was taking me to fall asleep. Over an hour now. I thought I’d figured it out and had exercised my ass off during the day: two long walks, weights and stretches in between a full day’s work from home. I barely sat down all day and I was exhausted when I finally got into bed at eleven pm. 

So why can’t I go to sleep, damn it?

As usual my brain was not helping: neurons were firing like crazy with pictures of my boss Tara looking exasperated on Zoom at my reporting of the lack of progress on the Anderson file. COVID had affected supply chain and communication, making international group projects a handful. Tara knew that, so I’d tried not to take her loud voice and wild hand gestures personally. 

I closed my eyes to stop watching the damned clock and tried to think of something soothing instead of irritating. Ah…the massage Vic gave me after dinner. His strong hands had worked miracles on my arms and shoulders in the few minutes he had before leaving for his shift at the hospital. With a quick kiss on the top of my head, he was gone too soon. 

I’d read somewhere that it isn’t a good idea to do exercises right before going to bed, so I cleaned up after dinner and did some slow stretches instead. I groaned and moaned as overworked body parts objected to even that movement, and soon Griffon was meowing alongside me. Maybe my sounds were cat sounds? “Hey, buddy. You giving me a hand here or simply being a cat?” He brushed his fluff against my face as I leaned over to touch my toes and then left as abruptly as he’d arrived. Cats.

I could smell the day’s efforts so decided a hot bubble bath would be just the thing to ease me into deep slumber. Ahhh… I swirled my hands through the water and watched the bubbles follow their path, feeling the shifting temperature of the water with their movements. I began to massage my sore thighs with my own hands. Giving yourself a massage isn’t as effective, though, is it? I sighed and slipped further into the water. Maybe I’d just sleep in the tub. 

Tomorrow’s headlines: “Local lawyer found smiling and dead in her tub.” Ha! I made my way to bed. I’d bought this expensive bed because I wanted to believe all the promises of “the best night’s sleep you’ll ever have”. So far false advertising ruled. 

My eyes had begun watching the big hand on the clock again. Only five hours before I had to get up and start over again. I focused on the second hand instead and began counting..nine, eight, seven…drowsy…six…ooh…sleepy…yay…deserve a hand for perseverance…Griffin on my legs, his cat hands kneading calf muscles….mmmm…g’night….

Ginny was laughing her butt off. 

I grabbed my tattered blanket even closer to me and scowled at her. “Shut up. I’m not hurting you. Neither is this blanket, so…” A louder howl. 

It was useless to talk to her when she got so happily derisive. At times like this I felt I’d made a big mistake moving in with my older sister in her new apartment. Hell, I wish I had enough money to get my own place, but I don’t. Neither does she, really. So here we are. 

“Oh, c’mon Ali, you’re 22 fucking years old and you still have a ‘blankie’??? Does Joey know you cuddle with a ratty piece of cloth when you’re not cuddling with him?” Ginny walked into the kitchen, shaking her head and still chuckling. I, like the mature adult I am, stuck my tongue out at the back of her head. 

My fingers were troubling the corner of the flannel square, a habit I’d had since it WAS appropriate to carry around something that makes you feel safe, secure, and loved. I still remember the trauma of separation when I finally left the bubble of all those good feelings with my Grammy at home and started going to school. Grammy promised me she’d take care of it until I came home, and she never broke promises.

I went into my room, curled up against the pillows, and held the blanket close while my fingers rubbed the satiny edging that Grammy had made for me. Mom told me I’d been a fussy baby and toddler, and after many failed attempts to calm me, Grammy had cut up a blanket from my crib into squares that would be easy to carry with me everywhere. But the plain pieces didn’t do the trick. Grammy got the idea to add the soft borders, and as soon as I touched them, my fingers began their busy work and I became peaceful.

Over the years I’d worn three of the squares to threads and holes. Childhood, puberty, adolescence, my parents’ divorce—all the things that had ended my world at the time—had started my fingers working again until this poor remnant was all I had left to deal with Joey’s words, “I don’t love you anymore.” 

My tears fell onto the beloved blanket, and my fingers started to tingle from constant stroking on the satin. I rewound my relationship with Joey, trying to figure out just when things had broken. It was a useless exercise, I knew; there was no other woman to point to, no wrong move from Joey to blame. It was the worst kind of reason—he just stopped loving me. 

Settling down into bed, I cried my heart out into the pitiful cloth. I knew I’d get over Joey, just as I knew I’d survive when the blanket finally wore out. For now though I could still feel the love that Grammy had stitched into this lifeline, and once again let it calm me.