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It was milk white and fleecy soft with silky smooth hems. It was most likely my first possession, as a baby. It was my blanket. In fact, it’s even still sitting on the top shelf of my closet. I used to take it with me everywhere and that took a toll on my fluffy knit blanket. I created tears and the occasional sticky spot from Sunday morning pancake breakfast. Plus, it wore many hats; it was my pillow, my new dress, my warm blanket and my favorite friend. It had a fever on sick days and had to go to bed at eight o’clock. Whenever I was sad or scared, all I had to do was rub the satiny edges across my lips and I was calm.
My grandma used to tell me that I was getting too old for the grubby old thing but I knew that she was wrong. I was so attached to the blanket that my mom would have to secretly take it from me so she could throw the dirty puff into the wash. For some crazy reason, one day I decided to put my treasured blanket behind the living room stereo for safe keeping and accidentally forgot it was there. I looked absolutely everywhere for it, but I guess I fell for my own trick; I just couldn’t find it. It was like loosing a tooth; it was painful at first, but then I barely noticed its absence. After a few months of coping without my fleecy friend, I came across it one day and I was euphoric. I still loved the blanket, but I realized that I didn’t need that graying white piece of cloth anymore. I didn’t need a piece of fabric to fight off the monsters under the bed or to put me to sleep. But, every now and then when I feel sad or scared, I like to take my blanket down from its shelf and feel its silky edges.

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