So there's this blanket....
Yeah, that's right, a blanket.
Its something that both Ms Gemini and I noticed (independent of each other) on our walks to work. Its just this ragged thing thrown there on Vine Street, something that was at one time pink, and possibly loved by someone. I can imagine it once being the throw cover for some grandmothers couch, this big weave pink blanket protected the fabric of the couch she had saved to buy, something that kept the chocolatey fingerprints of the grandkids off the couch, kept the cat hair from accumulating, something that she gathered the edges of up to warm herself on cold winter evenings as she yelled at the contestants on Wheel of Fortune for wasting their hard won money on something as stupid as a vowel.
Now this loved and well broken in blanket sits in a heap on Vine Street, no longer pink and loved, but pinkish mixed with grayish, damp and moldy. On cold days it freezes like some bas relief depicting American poverty. It has an almost fuzzy look to it, or rather looks as if it would feel quite fuzzy if you had the intestinal fortitude and proper immunizations to actually place your hands on something so foul.
We both, Gemini and I, have taken notice of how it sometimes moves, sometimes has new litter atop it (a used teabag, of all things, was the most recent addition). It has become this character almost, that greets us with a hearty hello that last couple of blocks we walk in the morning, or bids us farewell as we make our ways home at night.
Strange how this inanimate object, the filthy rag that someone loved so little as to throw it by the side of the road, has become this thing...this being we look for. It has become a part of my daily routine, along with the African cab drivers at the bus station, the old man who sells Afro-centric t-shirts by the Chinatown bus stop, the Amish women in the windows of the Reading Terminal market prepping their food for the day, the line of cop cars parked illegally while they have breakfast or lunch. Yet another piece of my life that isn't really of any import, yet would still be missed in it absence.
Yeah, that's right, a blanket.
Its something that both Ms Gemini and I noticed (independent of each other) on our walks to work. Its just this ragged thing thrown there on Vine Street, something that was at one time pink, and possibly loved by someone. I can imagine it once being the throw cover for some grandmothers couch, this big weave pink blanket protected the fabric of the couch she had saved to buy, something that kept the chocolatey fingerprints of the grandkids off the couch, kept the cat hair from accumulating, something that she gathered the edges of up to warm herself on cold winter evenings as she yelled at the contestants on Wheel of Fortune for wasting their hard won money on something as stupid as a vowel.
Now this loved and well broken in blanket sits in a heap on Vine Street, no longer pink and loved, but pinkish mixed with grayish, damp and moldy. On cold days it freezes like some bas relief depicting American poverty. It has an almost fuzzy look to it, or rather looks as if it would feel quite fuzzy if you had the intestinal fortitude and proper immunizations to actually place your hands on something so foul.
We both, Gemini and I, have taken notice of how it sometimes moves, sometimes has new litter atop it (a used teabag, of all things, was the most recent addition). It has become this character almost, that greets us with a hearty hello that last couple of blocks we walk in the morning, or bids us farewell as we make our ways home at night.
Strange how this inanimate object, the filthy rag that someone loved so little as to throw it by the side of the road, has become this thing...this being we look for. It has become a part of my daily routine, along with the African cab drivers at the bus station, the old man who sells Afro-centric t-shirts by the Chinatown bus stop, the Amish women in the windows of the Reading Terminal market prepping their food for the day, the line of cop cars parked illegally while they have breakfast or lunch. Yet another piece of my life that isn't really of any import, yet would still be missed in it absence.