sleeping well

I slept last night
under a pile of blankets:

A quilt of old t-shirt memories,
printed, stenciled, and drawn mementos
stretching back through my life,
stitched together with borders
of Grandma's old chenille
bedspreads, which were torn into pieces
of padding
when we packed her china
that cold Thanksgiving morning
after she died

The down comforter I sent to Iraq,
wrapped in its patchwork
which we trusted would enfold him
in the love of the whole family
(bearing Dad's trail map,
drawings of rebar for the house we've come up here to build,
and Grandpa's handprints)
We'd never gotten to share it before

And a plain green blanket I ended up with,
from who knows where.

When we'd arrived
we were startled to find a much larger
blanket of snow on so much of the ground,
which made us more grateful for our nighttime coverings.

How well we slept:
blanketed by nearly-full moonlight,
under covers of our lives,
up high in the mountains,
where we look forward
to memories to come
and countless full moons together
in this home that we're building.