The Clothes I Wear
Several years ago my sister gave me a hoodie for Christmas. Every fall as the weather turned colder, it would be my first choice top to wear. It fit me just right, and had all of the coziness that the season required. It became an outward symbol of an inward comfort. It belonged to me, and I belonged in it.
When we packed our things to move to Nicaragua, that black sweatshirt was left hanging in the closet. I didn't know if I'd ever wear it again, but I wasn't ready to give it up completely.
Some weeks ago, the cold air settled in and the trees began to give up their leaves. I looked through the few warm clothes that I had saved, and found that treasured, faded, worn-out shirt. The memories of many seasons passed came to mind as I pulled it over my head. I straightened out the arms, and settled it over my waist as I looked at myself in the mirror. It fit me exactly the same.
As the day moved on, I realized that it wasn't as cozy as I remember. The cold air blew through the thinning fabric, and I had to cross my arms to stay warm. I noticed a roughness to the material that made my skin itch in places, and I thought that maybe it had an odor too. It has since been washed and dried and placed back into the closet where I have not tried to wear it again.
A lot changed during the time that we lived in Nicaragua, and many things have remained the same. Sometimes it feels like I was asleep for a year, and suddenly I've awoken to my old life. A life that looks the same, but fits me differently.
I am absolutely the old me, and I am absolutely not her at all.
There were things I left behind without the knowledge that they would ever be returned to me, and now they are within arms reach. I've been trying them on, slipping them over my head and straightening out the arms; looking in the mirror and reflecting how they fit me. I wash and dry them, then hang them back up.
Some I'll keep, others I'll be letting go.
When we packed our things to move to Nicaragua, that black sweatshirt was left hanging in the closet. I didn't know if I'd ever wear it again, but I wasn't ready to give it up completely.
Some weeks ago, the cold air settled in and the trees began to give up their leaves. I looked through the few warm clothes that I had saved, and found that treasured, faded, worn-out shirt. The memories of many seasons passed came to mind as I pulled it over my head. I straightened out the arms, and settled it over my waist as I looked at myself in the mirror. It fit me exactly the same.
As the day moved on, I realized that it wasn't as cozy as I remember. The cold air blew through the thinning fabric, and I had to cross my arms to stay warm. I noticed a roughness to the material that made my skin itch in places, and I thought that maybe it had an odor too. It has since been washed and dried and placed back into the closet where I have not tried to wear it again.
A lot changed during the time that we lived in Nicaragua, and many things have remained the same. Sometimes it feels like I was asleep for a year, and suddenly I've awoken to my old life. A life that looks the same, but fits me differently.
I am absolutely the old me, and I am absolutely not her at all.
Some I'll keep, others I'll be letting go.
Comments
Post a Comment