Dusty Old Memories

My grandfather used to sit me down by the fireplace and tell stories about himself when he was younger, about the times he would hitchhike across the nation from Maryland to California, and all the other states inbetween. He said the most memorable item from those days were his blanket, which kept him warm during the cold nights, and made somber floors brighten up with warm, homely shades of brown. Said he picked it up from one of the Mid-Western states in one of those “EVERYTHING-MUST-GO” garage sales by the highway. Nowadays my grandpa lays it out on the living room floor as a reminder of his younger days, a relic of his past dwindling on threads of memory. He told me I’m forbidden to throw it in the washer because he fears that the process of washing the rug will take away that sweet musky aroma the rug has donned after years on the road, the aroma which reminds him of the Sequoias, the snowy mountain peaks, the plains, and the starry night skies.