Sweatshirt

One of my very favorite things in all the world was a sweatshirt ― one that came into my life with an old girlfriend, and stayed with me long after she left. It was a dark, cranberry red, almost the color of wine, and it was, without a doubt, the most comfortable piece of clothing I've ever owned, or probably ever will own. It was a woman's sweatshirt, but I couldn't have cared less (and anyway, it wasn't all that obvious). I had taken to wearing it while the former owner and I were still together, and for whatever reason (I can't remember why), it was left for me. Either that, or she just never noticed that I had taken it.

I couldn't begin to tell you why it felt so comfortable ― I have no idea. I never examined it too closely, as that might have spoiled the mystique.

(When I catch a cold, my preferred method of treatment is to bundle myself up and sleep under several layers of blankets and quilts ― I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, but with my fever broken, and I usually feel much better the next day. I would always, inevitably, wear this particular sweatshirt ― it was my magic talisman.)

I would wear this sweatshirt for years, long after those years began to show, for as long as I possibly could ― before it finally dissolved into nothingness. I've never been able to replace it.

I had hopes for another sweatshirt from, of all places, the Victoria's Secret catalog ― my wife had spotted something she thought might be reasonably similar, and they were on sale, so I chose one that was a sort of grey blue green (if you can imagine that). I've been wearing it off and on over the past several days, while working. It's loose-fitting, perhaps a bit too open around the neck, but comfortable. But it just isn't the same.