Monday, January 4, 2010
Dad has to go to dialysis and I'm supposed to help him down the stairs in the garage. Wes, the handyman, is in the kitchen taking apart the stove.
"I won't charge you for the time," he tells my mother, "if I can't fix it."
I feel doubtful, raise an eyebrow when he's not looking.
I go down to the basement, since my father is still trading on his computer. What's more important, honestly, being on time, or whatever it is he's doing. I begin to shelp up stuff that Purple Heart will carry away on the 12th of the month. Irene, from Purple Heart, my bff, has called me to tell me this is when they'll be in the neighborhood.
I find all kinds of very old stuff, drag it up to their front hall closet. This work-out is good for me, works muscles I didn't know I had, and is much better for me than sitting in the office.
Anyway, in a torn new plastic, either new or hardly ever used, is a very heavy blanket, but it isn't wool, and it isn't down. It's just a blue and white blanket, and my bedroom is in shades of blue, so what the heck, I took it.
Got it home and washed it. Petted it.
I'll bet he got it on a fishing trip in Canada, way North.