Charcoal Gray

Gustavo Guerra

I can’t stop looking at my blanket.

There’s nothing special about this wool blanket. It’s one of those industrial ones they might pass out to the military or at a shelter or in prison. The first two places I have been at. The latter is from where I presently write.

It’s charcoal gray with sky blue stripes. Except I don’t think I can call anything sky blue ever again without feeling the pain of freedom I’ve lost. No mix of oils or pigments or powders can replicate the sensation of looking at the expanse of the open blue sky. At least not anymore. Charcoal gray, however, will always transport me back to this blanket. The ever present moment of the past fifteen years.

Upon closer inspection, you can see a polychromatic tapestry of detritus. Stands of tinsel. Strings of fishing line. Small swaths of cloth. All interwoven and pressed together. Yet, I have never found the source of the scratching sensation, the sandpaper I just know is hidden in its depths. But as I sit on this blanket, my back supported by the wall of my cell, my mind drifts unbidden down the tributary of logic ad wonders about all the other prisoners that have been issued this blanket.

Did they dream about ocean blue waters softly lapping on the shore? Did they fly under an open blue sky, travelling anywhere but here in their meditations? Or were they chased by the wraiths of regret in a midnight blue landscape? Their essence embedded in the ghosts of their seat and tears. Permanent, in spite of the countless attempts to wash them away.

 So much hope, so much pain, so much despair saturated in this blanket. How much more in the men that have laid upon it?