Can we get rid of this?” Pete asks, holding up a faded pink, patched cotton blanket. The stitching around the edges is unraveling, the label is faded, almost illegible from decades of use. I look up from the box I am packing with linens and sit back on my heels. I reach for it wordlessly, almost snatching it out of his grasp. “What is it?” he’s puzzled, it’s just an old blanket after all. Shaking my head, I ball it up in my hands, then smooth it out, feeling the…
