Comfort Blankets

They always pick the good ones for the end. Whichever was their favourite. You can tell they were loved, the way they're wrapped. Tucked in, like they're sleeping.

Most folk don't want them back after. Can't bear the smell of him gone, I suppose. So I take them home. Wash them. Dry them warm.

They’re the softest things I own. You sink right down into them. Pull them close.

I've got a stack now. Every one a different goodbye and good boy. All that love all ready to wrap around me.

Never had a dog myself, though. Can’t stand the things.