The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,
Remains the blankee of all blankees.
Transported to a bigger island,
Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,
Endures above all.
Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,
Cover me in an Irish liturgy,
Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,
But always present.
Protecting me from the others who abound outside its threads.
One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,
I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.
Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,
As I appear to have outgrown it,
Merely by a change of school.
She was gone, like a womb I longed for,
But could not contain me,
A new encounter occurred,
Each day, new people, standards, experiences.
Most of which I did not like.
With the blankee gone,
Many years followed me,
Drearily passing, with little of note to report.
As I searched for a new one,
And tried to knit a replacement.
To no avail.