Letter to the Old Blanket

Isabella

Sometimes, I find you still smell like him.

It's only when I miss

my brother

the most that you do.

And after summer died, I would close his old door to preserve the

remains of boyish cologne, but always turn around and find it

open again.

Over and over, I would close the door, and over and over, it swung

open again, like an old cut that wouldn't heal.

In the dead of night when the cut was bleeding 

too profoundly, I crept inside his room. It had been months.

The cologne still lingered. That was the day I took you,

old blanket,

to my room.

I say I keep you there to let go. But I think I keep you there to

hold on.

There are days when I see his face in the

strangest of places. In places he would never go. Places he stood

too tall

to fit into. When I'd turn around to see if he was still there, he never was.

That is how it always went.

And

There are places that the mind doesn't reach. Truths to terrible to name. Demons that emerge

when one is alone with their secret pain. They make you scream. They make you

understand that you will never be anything to him. They make you

laugh that his legacy will be a

blanket

that he used before he flew across the country, and, by choice,

screwed with the ideology of breaking a

little sister's heart. In the back of my heart, there's a 

list.

Of the times  I tried to email him.

Times I tried to call. Say hello. Say goodbye. To pretend that two weeks a year are

enough to have him. To burn you, ugly and rotting blanket.

To burn my list. But the list keeps growing and growing and

growing until it inevitably flows out of my mouth and chokes me and

crawls into my eyes, catching fire to the tear ducts that

cried for nights and weeks to get over his

metaphorical and putrid

death.

Until finally, 

I am

eaten alive by the flames.

 

That is what I want. The tears always extinguish 

the fire, though. The years remain prominent in

the ashes. The cut is always

cauterized.

And you, ugly and rotting blanket,

Never burn.

 

  • Author: Isabella (Offline Offline)
  • Published: September 22nd, 2017 21:42
  • Comment from author about the poem: This, I wrote my freshman year about my brother leaving. Where to is not important. In time I know I can forgive. It's a little long. But that's okay.
  • Category: Letter
  • Views: 24
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Comments2

  • BRIAN & ANGELA

    GRACIAS ISABELLA (Lovely Name) Welcome to MPS and thank You for your first Poem. It is beautifully written & spaced and full of Melancholy Rhythm ! I cried too when my Sister left for College and I used to hug and kiss her Sweater just to remind me of her sweet scent. Now she only lives 50 miles away with her Husband & Family ~ AMEN. There is so so much sadness in your Lovely Poem ~ but I understand because like You I know just how powerful the "Special Love" between "Brothers and Sisters" can be. MPS is a very Empathetic Site some amazing Poets. Thanks for sharing ~ Thinking of You ~ Praying for you ~ Love to be your MPS FRIEND ~ Yours BRIAN (UK)

    • Isabella

      Oh gosh, that's so sweet Brian! I'm really glad you liked it. Thanks for welcoming me 🙂

    • Accidental Poet

      Yes, welcome to MPS. A beautiful write Isabella of missing your brother. I guess the question begs to be asked, what were the circumstances of his leaving?

      • Isabella

        Thank you very much! He lives in Norway, and has for years now. He decided to live their permanently with some of our family members.



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