Wistful Thinking

Two garments live side by side in my closet. Hanging together … as they did many years ago. Neither is particularly attractive or stylish; both have seen better days. Their fabric is “pilled,” as so often happens with knits that have been washed many times, although I have washed neither of them since they have been in my possession. Probably they never will be washed, and they will never be separated in my lifetime.

The first I acquired is a man’s cardigan. It is striped with vertical lines of chocolate, tan and cream. It came into my possession in 1994, when my mother asked, “What would you like to have … to remember him?” My Daddy had just been laid to rest, and I pointed to the cardigan, “That, please.”

It was part of one of three “uniforms” that my father wore. He didn’t like to “gussy up” much, so his wardrobe was limited. In wintertime, he often wore a set of gray coveralls, so he could work outside. In the heat of a Texas summer, he often sat around in just his underdrawers. Did I hear you ask, “Boxers or briefs?” Boxers.

Neither of those uniforms appealed to me, but that cardigan is one he often wore with a pair of jeans as he lounged with friends. When I first took it in my arms, it smelled like my Daddy. Old Spice! Often in the first year after his death I cuddled inside that cardigan for comfort. His scent lingered for two or three years, so I couldn’t bear to wash it. Although it no longer carries his scent, I still refuse to throw it in the washing machine.

The other garment is a coat made of red felt-like material. When I look at it, I picture Momma. I know she wore it when she was still spry, and she filled it out then. But, the memory that comes to mind is my Momma on my arm on her way to chemotherapy treatments, her bald head wrapped in a blue scarf and swaddled in this coat that swallowed her up. She liked it because it was bright and cheerful. I prefer to remember her that way … cheerful.

When Momma passed in 2004, I grabbed her coat before my siblings could think twice. Yes, it smelled like Momma. No, I haven’t washed it. I’m wearing it as I write, and though I know her scent is gone … in my mind I smell My Sin.

Obviously, I’m thinking about Momma and Daddy tonight. I miss ‘em. I’m not sad, I’m wistful. It’s the eve of my birth (56 years ago, but don’t tell anybody). For several days, I’ve been wondering what their life was like in those days leading to my birth. Why didn’t I ever ask? I’ve been wishing I could hear their laughter one more time. And, I’ve been sending my thanks out into the Universe … to my parents … who gave me the opportunity to walk the planet and gave me a warm and loving home.

Is it any wonder that the tokens I chose to honor their memory were garments that swaddle me in warmth?

Other posts you might enjoy:

1. Soup or Salad?
2. The Daddy Doll
3. Poor Barbie
4. I Sound Like Grandpa Simpson
5. Penny For Your Thoughts

Tagged as: family, Memories, Storytelling