I stole an aging quilt from our family cabin several summers ago. Always a favorite, though faded, torn and nothing fancy and only big enough for one. I say stole, since I didn't ask the keeper of the cabin, my aunt, for permission to remove it from the stacks of blankets left for dead above the bedroom closet.

She discovered my indulgence a few years later when she spotted it at my house and said, "isn't that one of mother's quilts?" I came clean and suffered little consequence but for the twinge of being caught with my hand in the linen closet as we laughed about it.

Thing is: I loved it enough to sneak it home and pass its strange attraction on to Shawna, who will fight me for it given the slightest chance; and yet it lays folded in the family room upstairs, called into service only when I manage to sit down and watch TV with Kevin. So the other night, following one such session, I took it to bed with me and sighed contentedly as I closed my eyes under its worn and faded embrace.

I have a nice pile of costlier possessions. Few feed my soul like that ragged twin-sized quilt...