The Blanket by Anne Aarssen, 15
inspired by
The First, the Only One by John William Haynes
The blanket was finished. It had taken her nine months, nine months of passionate labour, to produce this perfect piece of work, trimmed with a red stripe and made of creamy white wool.
She looked at her hands. They were now free to rest, no more industrious knitting was required of them. Still, they longed back to those days. Days filled with excitement: working the wool kept them busy, and every so often they would drift off to the belly, and feel for the signs of new life.
Those days were not always spent in solitude. She would often be accompanied by her maid, who helped her with the simple pattern, or by a whole group of ladies from the neighbouring houses, who were glad to share the day’s gossip with her.
Nine months it had taken. But the new life had come before she could finish it. After eight months, a month earlier than expected, it came. It died in her arms.
Stubbornly, she kept working on the blanket, allowing no-one to enter her room, deprived from sleep and malnourished.
A month later, she finished. Just as planned, but late at the same time.
Carefully, she picked up the baby and cradled it in her arms. She gently wrapped the blanket around the cold little human being, and put it back into its cot. She stared at it, stared at her hands, and stared at her life, at what could have been, but wasn’t.
And finally, she gave in.
She cried.
(Ik vertelde Anne over deze verhalenwedstrijd, waar Ina, een boekgrrl, aan meedeed en waarvan de inzendtermijn vandaag sluit en toen heeft ze in een vrij uur snel nog even deze bijdrage geschreven. Wow!)
