The Blanket

I was five years old
when in a sunlit room
as my mother folded laundry into tight, neat piles
she said that I should want to love God more than I love her.
The feeling upon these words from her
was that of a balloon you squeeze too hard
that bursts against your face.
You aren’t injured, but the force of the explosion
wounds you all the same.
Directly after her words
I crawled up on the couch
and covered my head with my blanket.
I’ve yet to understand her.
I’ve yet to pull the blanket off.