As I got closer, I recognized the material.
A piece of my grandmother’s apron.
A piece of my first concert T-shirt.
A strip of the curtains we bought for our first apartment.
Each square was a memory. Little pieces of my life, sewn together with patient care. Envelopes lay hidden between the folds of the blanket. Lots of envelopes. Thick, hand-addressed. As if they had been waiting for me for a long time.
This wasn’t a decoration.
This was a gift .
My husband spoke softly, almost solemnly. He told me that over the past year he had written letters to everyone who had ever been important to me. Old friends from a previous life. Family members we had grown apart from. Neighbors who had seen me become who I am.
He asked for only one thing from each of them:
a memory,
a true sentence,
or a wish for the coming years.
