pull this thread as i walk away

unravel: to separate; to undo the knitted fabric of; to separate and clarify the elements of

Many things can come unraveled, either on purpose or by accidental miscare. Sometimes the connotation of the word is good. Sometimes it is not.

I remember the Christmas that my mom crocheted the afghan for my dad. It was a great Christmas, the one when Joyce and I got the doll house, complete with Barbie-sized afghan made my Nora. He loved that blanket. He slept under it when he dozed off on his recliner. I wrapped myself in it on cold Saturday mornings. It was the family security blanket, always tossed over the back of my dad's Lazy Boy. I didn't realize it was a symbol, not until I saw it on Friday.

My dad got back from the mental hospital that day and called to see if he could drop by some things. He needed to rid his mind and apartment of things that reminded him of my mom, things that made his heart break over and over again, things that sent him to the hospital. I received a pile of pictures, most of my mom when she was my age; their wedding announcement; a photocopy of her mission call that she had sent him while he was on his mission; a little black box, of what significance I know not; and the afghan. My heart broke when I saw it.

I carried it all inside, a haphazard heap of reddish yarn. April saw my face and followed me into my room away from listening ears. She has learned to recognize the face that says I need someone. She brought ice cream. I looked through the photos of my mom, so young, so like me, sprawled on a couch with a book in her lap. I spread the afghan on my bed.

At night as I snuggle deep under my covers thoughts of unraveling linger in my head as the maroon fringe tickles my face. It is amazing what things unravel over time, and what things do not.