Our games were our childhood, the hopscotch and the hide 'n' seek. There were so many variations of each game and all of them kept us running about all day long. We would climb trees, build damns in woodland streams and catch crabs at the seaside. There were games with rhymes, skipping and "cat's cradle." We played games of lyrics and clapping, games of dance, games of building structures. We were busy, we were together with friends and we learned how to get along. Isn't that what it's all about?
The blanket was art, a creation in vibrant wool, an expression of nana's love. When Nate watched television I could see his emotions by the way he held it, the sensations of pleasure and tension told in how he either held it softly in his hands or else pushed his fingers though the holes, twisting and grasping. When he was happy it was his covering for games of "ghost," or else it was his invisibility shield. Some days, when it rained, it was our indoor picnic blanket. Other times it was his cape when there was superhero work to be done. It was his best toy, his comfort, his woven rainbow and keeper of his memories. And as he grew Nate would once in a while comment that he had thought the blanket was bigger and ask if it had shrunk somehow.
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