The Ritual
by Candace Turner

On Wednesday mornings
she hangs each blanket
on a makeshift bowed clothesline.
By dusk they will
have captured
sun scents & dry desert breezes.
Each blanket holds
a child’s memory.
Her heart knows they’re not
coming back to their tribal beginnings.
But
Often on quiet starlit nights
she hears tired mattress springs creak
and the snuggle shush of a body’s sighs
safe, secure under a warm blanket.

Weekly, Wednesday
blankets hang
sway like signal fires.

Come home.
You are missed.



 

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