She comes to me from a world beyond
In dark, smirking comedy
A reminder of a time that is past
A black sweater shall not be her remedy
I am my mother’s daughter it seems.
I hang onto clothes that are comfortable, no matter the condition. The clothes that envelope me in warmth and security, like a blanket in the hands of Linus and the black sweater my mom hung onto in her nineties.
It took me over 20 years to let go of a pink summer bathrobe that had seen its better days. It took holes and thinning fabric and a why-are-you-still-wearing-this realization to loosen a tight, white-knuckled grip.
She shakes her head from the world above
In a knowing mother-to-daughter glance
I had to let go of mine five years ago
While you engage in a hoarder’s dance
I am not a hoarder.
I may have trouble letting go of certain things, but I am not a hoarder. If that were the case, I’d have a well-worn sweater and bathrobe in every color imaginable hanging in the closet.
As the ratty burgundy sweater purchased from a Chicago mall was washed over the weekend, it reminded me of mom’s black sweater and the fact that I will not easily let go of what is mine if it still serves a purpose. It keeps the cat hair away from the other sweaters, warms up flesh in the morning and envelopes its owner in warm fuzzy feelings almost daily.
So, the ratty sweater stays, regardless of what mom or anyone else would say in opposition.
She laughs and throws up a flag of white
Like mother, like daughter in many ways
A clothes horse, a keeper of the sweater
The black one is gone, but the burgundy stays
As a substitute sacrifice, I did offer up a sparkly shirt I bought many years ago in Nashville. It held some special memories of a road trip, good music and wonderful friends. Sadly, though, the memories weren’t enough to hide the stains and fuzzballs that would prevent me from wearing it again in public. Nasty.
There is still hope for me.
I’ll throw away the ratty burgundy sweater some day, but just not today.