Underneath the cobijas

Cobija (koh-bee-hah). A blanket.

Initially, the colorful displays of fabrics were mighty forts.

In zig zag formations, they were elaborate tunnels under the earth.

Inside my head, I was excavating with the blankets against dessert winds.

Every weekend, I stuck them over worn blue couches.

With imaginative coloring books below, I illuminated their fuzz with yellow flashlights.

The cobijas protected me from shadows, and from unknown noises during humid storms.

I ran down hallways with the animal faces trailing behind me, softness covering my vision.

With whispers that seeped out into the interwoven cloth, my blankets were always walls.

During late night conversations with friends, they were peace.

Cobijas held our chatter close, while our laughter they released.

I held them close during disappoinment, TV shows, and the decompressing of after school hours.

They morphed from castle flags and picnic spots to security in sleep.

Comfort was once playtime, and then it became a soft relief.

During halloween, they became ghosts themselves.

Sometimes they were costumes, and other times they were monsters over chairs in the corners of dark rooms.

But when the light came on, cobijas were all I grabbed.

Anxiety hitting, cotton spinning, and blankets washed in quick cycles.

College transformed them to nap time necessities, and adult life turned them into extra supplies for panic attacks.

They held textbooks at one point.

Sometimes they became tissues while they decided to melt into my own tears.

Every now and then, they held lovers close.

For every stage, cobijas were the perfect tool.