I took out the letter, unfolding it carefully. It was addressed to my brothers and me, written in my mother’s elegant handwriting. As I read it aloud, my daughter listened intently. The letter was a farewell of sorts, full of love and wisdom she wished to impart after her departure. She spoke of the blankets, explaining that each was meant for one of us, her sons. They weren’t just old rags; they were her way of ensuring we were always wrapped in her love, her warmth, and her protection.

The blankets had been handmade by my mother when we were children. She had sewn small, hidden pockets into each one, intending to fill them with little keepsakes as we grew older, reminders of moments shared. The wooden box was just the first discovery. My daughter and I searched the other blankets and found more of my mother’s hidden treasures: a pressed flower from a summer picnic, a small seashell from a family trip to the beach, and a lock of hair wrapped in tissue, perhaps from one of our childhood haircuts.