memory exercise
October, 2024
The Winnie the Pooh quilt comes from the US. It was brought by my aunt and cousin when they returned to Portugal for a few years in the late ’90s. It’s a single bed quilt, bright and cheerful, covered with Winnie the Pooh and Piglet against a white background. The inside is simpler—white fluffy clouds parting the deep turquoise blue in a regular, soothing pattern.
When I pick it up, it feels heavy in my small hands, soft to the touch, and carries the irresistible fragrance of fabric conditioner. Only my aunt's clothes smell this good, and I never understand why ours don’t, despite my mum swearing she uses the same products. A few decades will pass before I realize that the eco-friendly (though not branded that way then) “wind-drying method” we use steals away the scent that the dryer lovingly concentrates on my aunt’s textiles.
I can’t possibly imagine now that this quilt, left behind when they move back to Texas in a few years, will somehow follow me into adulthood. Among the group of objects my family assembles as a starter pack for my move, it makes its way with me to university. It becomes my favorite source of comfort during long, cold days in moody Porto—a piece of home wrapped in memories.
I’m at our grandmother’s house. It’s cold outside, the rain pouring down in heavy sheets, and I’m sprawled on the couch near the fireplace, watching some forgettable Sunday afternoon movie. My feet rest on my cousin’s knees, both of us tucked under that quilt she brings everywhere. She calls it “blankie,” which, in retrospect, feels like an oddly imprecise word for this object. We can’t understand each other—she doesn’t speak Portuguese, and I don’t speak English—but somehow, that never stops us.
She pulls the quilt to her side, insisting, “My blanket!” I giggle, thinking it’s a game, and mimic her, tugging it back and repeating the sounds, though I have no idea what they mean. “My blanket!” I say, laughing. She pouts, a little more serious now, and declares again, “No, my blanket!” Game on, I think, and copy her once more.
From the big chair beside us, my grandfather watches, eating his customary ridiculously large yogurt—always at the same time every day, like clockwork. A man serious about his rituals and schedules. Amused by the back-and-forth of sounds he understands no better than I do, he chuckles. After a while, in his deep, hoarse, playful voice, he joins in, proclaiming with mock authority: “No, my blanket!”