When I was little I had a blue blanket, a security blanket they called it. I called it "Blankie".
I loved it. I still remember it. I liked to press it against the side of my head and ear. I loved its coolness so I would change it's position regularly for the cool spot. It was soft and fleecy, with a blue satin trim. The satin was extra cool.
I went everywhere with it.
One day my sister cut it into pieces.
For awhile I kept going with one of the pieces of it, and I had an equal passion for the mere scrap.
And then I suppose at some point I drifted on to other things, my blankie left behind. I probably went without being secure for a long, long time.
At work now, during a pandemic, at the library, whenever I go to a new spot, a computer, or a phone, I take with me a bunch of paper towels, or sometimes a wad of four or five kleenexes, that I've saturated in our boozy, alcohol anti-covid cure-all liquid. I use this soaking alcoholic mass to wipe everything down around me. Then I squirt more antiseptic liquid on my jumble of towel or tissue. Then I keep it reassuringly near me. It sits quietly in a damp lump and fights the coronavirus for me.
I reach out and touch it every once in awhile.
It comforts me.
I squeeze it gently. I hold it and I set it down.
It's cool to the touch.