Wrap up in the blanket, soft and puffed with something gentle on my skin. Patched together parts of my grandpa's shirts, with the sewing of your machine and your hands; a labour of love.
The horizontal loading of imagery or floorboards creaking beneath your feet. A slow waiting game; line by line. The rigidity of cardboard that falls and drapes like the blanket did. It curves at the bottom as if falling around our cold feet. His feet are in socks and sandals located near the fire to get warmer.