Footsteps creak the old wood floors. Through soft and slow, they carry a weight many would not know. A light weight, to be certain. There was little dent a child could make. Alhough the stone of her night thoughts had turned her body to lead. Stiff and heavy, an effort for every step. She crept downstairs, to where she knew her mother kept the woven blankets. A gift from her grandmother.
She picked one up out of the cabinet, carried it down the hall. Up the stairs next, confident she wouldn't fall. Back in her bed, she lay the blanket beside her. As she pulled it over hear head, she felt her greif replaced by the settling weight on her chest.
Her grandmother's blanket, woven with symbols of family and love, wrapped tightly around her as if a hug from above. Soothed by the warmth settling within her, she felt the cold grip of the gravestone crumble in her head.
There was nothing a child could do about death. But in the scilence of night, moonlight still shone above the meadows. A blanket of love honoring the land family rests within.
Like the blanket over her bed, reminding the girl of her grandmother's stead.

© LiaRay