When they first arrived at the scene, the firemen gave us each a blanket. The fabric is cheap and itchy against the bare skin of my arms, but it does provide minimal warmth. Although the fire rages mere feet away from us, I drape one of the flame-resistant blankets around my grandmother's shoulders. I hope the small warmth it offers will give her a little bit of comfort. As soon as I let go, she snatches it off and throws it to the ground. It crackles with static as it is torn away from her bathrobe.
"I don't need that damned thing. I'm fine." Her voice hisses like the water as it meets the heat of the house fire. I am a little annoyed with her for throwing the blanket onto the ground when she could have just handed it back to me, but I know she is upset. I let it slide. Under the circumstances, her stubbornness is not surprising. I pick the blanket up out of the gravel and shake it. A puff of dirt and a few twigs are hoisted into the air as I shake, but find their way back to the driveway after a few seconds. I roll the blanket into a ball and toss it into the backseat of my car.
My grandmother once made beautiful quilts. She made one for each of us, and gave it to us when we graduated from high school. A slave to convention, every stitch was done by hand. She refused to acknowledge the convenience of a sewing machine. Quilts stitched by hand are something to be proud of. Machines make cheap bed covers with shoddy stitching. Her grandchildren deserve better.
The quilt she made for me is a log cabin pattern. Every rectangle is cloth with a different pattern, but they are all in the same shades of blue and green. I did not really care about it when she originally gave it to me. I mean, how much can a teenager really care about a stupid blanket? I think I tossed it in to the bottom of my closet. I packed it with the rest of my things when I went away to college. Somehow, in the years I was away from home, the blanket grew on me. I love the thing now. It is beautiful, even after years of washing it in the washer. I keep it on my bed year-round. There is absolutely no better feeling than crawling under that quilt on a frosty day in January. It traps in your body heat and, slowly, chases away the chill. My toes are always the last part of me to warm up beneath the quilt's bulk.
The fireman's blanket suddenly seems more itchy against my skin. I take it off and throw it into the seat on top of my grandmother's. I lean against my rear door and watch her. There is not a thing in the world that could divert her eyes away from those flames. She stands, wringing her hands, in silence. I stare at her hands as she squeezes one, and then the other. Her hands were once so dexterous, but arthritis has disfigured them to the point that they are almost useless. She has not quilted in years, and I do not think she will ever try to make a quilt again. The clumsiness of her hands frustrates her too much.
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