Under this warm blanket now

 I have a blanket tonight. Last night was without it, a quilt of warmth as I have to cover my legs with. The second pass just now, and I realize it again – I have a blanket tonight. The previous night did not witness my sleep, not on this bed I sit on. How cunning chicanery of these stars on the sky sometimes, yet admirable just as well – I was relegated beneath a maid. The mattress, not two on each other as the mother of mine prefers; this texture of the bed linen I touch with the palm of my hands who refuse to stop running from over the surface – is it no different from its former self, but for me – is it a fabric I haven’t worn in time; this quilt and its warmth, oh holy Grace! How I love the heat inside.

I missed it last night; and the verity encompasses that this second that I live, my breath testifying it all the same – I recall all of that. I recall that well enough. I recall when absolutely absurd it is to even hear me say so for is the moment not gone. ‘Tis here and I am here to have it. ‘Tis mine and I am here to own it. ‘Tis mine. ‘Tis mine. ‘Tis mine! I will have it. Why on the name of human Earth still I hear my lips squirm to let my tongue speak “I recall them well” I do not know. I will love to though. I envision if I dreamt. That I cannot recall, yet strive I with a reluctance to place my head on the pillow now. Ah! I dreamt. Creamy fringes, viscous core, pressed ends it had. A dream like that. Was I scared I ask, was I? Was it confiscated from my gray matter right as the bedlam reached the zenith of pandemonium in my subliminal space? I heard it from the other bedroom. I beseech! Pray! Must I know! Must I know! A certain clutch – ‘twas a cert to happen. Was it a clutch with my arms hurled round my thighs – had my palms grown colder despite the fire from my skin. I kept them on my body and slid they betwixt my hair, seeking a sheltered sun. Had they been frozen ice, only underneath this time. Was the inferno allayed or did the numbness instigate me? Quite an irony it must be then. Don’t you think? Ask I. Ask I now, merely if am I answered. May I receive a response now? Did I wish, amidst the invisible fog instilling the inclement snow in the air that kissed every part of what was bare on my body, to disappear by melding with the thickness of the white mist? Alas! ‘Twas the penultimate hour of the night – a new day smiling at the horizon as the stars continued to swathe the sky in a blanket that only they make.

A blanket of their own kind. Was the warmth enough? I ask because sensed I the sensation on my bones again. It was a terrible bliss. Lackaday! Alas my Lord! Oh my God! Did I pray? Lackaday! Shame, shame, shame! Did I forget to? I could not. Lackaday! May I be doomed if not blessed, yet enquire I a sacrosanct deity I worship, but anyone may answer. Was I blessed? It was Ralph Kumin Dorney on my position the other night. Yes it was him and not me at all. Must he have enjoyed the soft futon under his chest and back. Must he have. I wonder if ‘twas as smooth and soporific as it is now. Oh how I am so tempted to concede with the shut-eye when I wish to remember more! Pity! What a pity am I to brazen out now! What a terror it was – the night heard my ears the Angelus recited in a mosque for the first time in. ‘Twas the call of God in my heart. I could tell because my fingers intertwined under my study with another, and descried I my holy Lord inside. Am I not of the religion. I am not. The prayer sought my reverent attendance anyway. ‘Twas a prayer. A prayer of and for someone. Whom did I pray for? Surely would my dear, yet chimerical kin fast asleep right next to me have read the picture am I so petrified to display.

My head was transparent; only I was blind to see. “MOTHER! PEHI! MOTHER!” would come a farrago of her syllables. And I’d allow them to silence the universe for me, the quiet of the ambiance on a war zone just before the riot embarks. A broken bedstead, bedraggled bedspread, dead bedbugs and not many sights than them did my eyes behold in my folks’ bedroom. So unkempt my mother’s visage, how untidy her hair – all undone yet, did she not touch a strand! I swear! Such malodorous smell prevailed! Was rotting somewhere some flesh and blood? Oh, the face of my mother! Anguish spilled like raindrops under the lashes of her eyes – how they sparkled in the lambent glow of the only light. What was it this time, huh? Who was it this time? May I know? I thought I was the daughter of the two. So, was it my father’s fist or my mother’s mouth? Which one shall I penalize? Must one be punished thou see. Was it my father’s curse or my mommy’s injury? Which one is culpable tonight? Must I know for I want to sleep.