My Security Blanket Was Made of Paper

    When I was four and living in Austin, I went to the Smithsonian with my Mother while we were visiting family in Baltimore. I was allowed to pick one thing from the giftshop. I decided on a 2”x2” book that was at least an inch thick. It was a some coffee table book simply called, “Impressionism” with what were considered the definitive paintings from the movement. For some reason, this became one of those things I just wouldn’t let go of. Wherever I went, I carried three things; a baby blanket, a stuffed bear called Theodore Roosevelt and this book. Slowly as I got older I left the bear on my bed at home, then the blanket, but the book was the last to be left at home. Still, I slept with all three items. 

     For years, I followed the same pattern when I was upset or couldn’t sleep. I’d snuggle with my blankets and animals and go through this little book over and over until I felt okay. This particular element of my childhood is one that has lasted. In desperate times when nothing seems to comfort me enough, break ups and deaths and trauma, I bring out that silly little book and feel a little bit better. The binding has long since weakened and it’s swollen from times when I spilled things on it and from the near-tragedy of ‘98 when the family dog got ahold of it; but even in college, it’s still one of the most treasured things that I own. It seems that no matter how much I try to leave behind former versions of myself, there are some things that will always stay the same.