When I was a little girl, I slept with a blanket—as most do.
This blanket was special, though. It was my version of a stuffed animal, dubbed “Blankie,” cleverly enough. I slept with it every night and carted it around with me every day, chewing on the ends of it and sucking on the corners. It was green and fairly rough from wear, with small holes near the corners. I slept with it every night for 12 years— until I forgot it in Florida.
I wonder where it is now. I wonder why I was so unbothered by my childhood blanket’s disappearance. How could I possibly shrug that off? I didn’t even try to replace it or even contact the owners of the vacation home.
Maybe it’s because I subconsciously decided to grow up. That trip was when I had my first period; maybe some part of me decided that I shouldn’t need Blankie anymore.
I miss Blankie. I just want to hold it again. I long for the familiar comfort of ringing it in my fingers; I want it to be here to wipe my tears like it used to. Most of all, I want to be that girl again, the girl I was before I lost Blankie, the girl I was before moving to Michigan.
I lived in Alabama for nearly seven years. That was before I became emotionally intelligent and socially aware. It was when I was a little girl.
I was a bit of an extreme kid. I loved anything and everything that had to do with pink or ribbons, but I was also a curious little dork. I chased around toads in my driveway wearing a hot pink tutu and blue polka-dotted heels, squealing, “Daddy, get it! Get it ‘cause I want it!” Never mind that I didn’t have a terrarium or food for the toad, or that I didn’t know how to take care of one in the first place. I was determined to get it.
I wasn’t ashamed of how my loud, honest nature could startle someone. I didn’t care that people could see exactly how I was feeling from my expressions. I was just happy; I was just a little kid.
Whenever I was asked what my talent was as a little girl, I always responded: “making friends.”
I must have left that in Florida with Blankie.
Alabama was warm. It still is, really, but I remember when I was little and it snowed. Our miniature trampoline was layered with ice. I jumped up and down, causing the white powder to lift off of the ground. Over and over, because I knew the snow would melt the next day.
Now I don’t like the snow. Michigan has surrounded me with its frigid air and made me cold as ice. I dread the feeling of wet socks and clammy skin, and I praise the days when I can smell the advent of spring in the air.
I lost my special blanket, my love of snow, and my outgoing disposition. I no longer speak with the same intensity and honesty as my younger self; I’m no longer comfortable around anyone and everyone. I was an extrovert who slowly lost her valor after seeing enough people suppress a grin when she spoke.
Coming into high school was a bit scary. I had heard the freshman horror stories and “Fifteen” by Taylor Swift. I came into my fifth hour, a class with only two other freshmen, afraid of being ridiculed by the upperclassmen. I was not prepared for the comfort I would find in Writing for Publication. I may be loud, I may be annoying, but I talk more in that class than I do all day.
Thank you to every person in room 139 that listened to my ramblings. I’m going to miss you all so much next semester, just like my blanket.
