The Sweater

Curled in a ball under my pillow lies my thin, black sweater.

It’s not dirty, it doesn’t have a hole, it’s not out of season.  In fact, putting my outfits together has been much harder without it.

But I can’t give it up.

Because, clinging somewhere in its fibers, my sweater holds a scent even weaker than the flimsy protection the fabric offers from the cold.

The cold. Right. That’s what started this anyway.

“You’re going to be cold, I know you,” he said with a smug grin, handing me one of his shirts.

“Fine,” I muttered, rolling my eyes, though I’m sure we both knew there was a reason I was wearing such a useless sweater on such a windy day.

More than its warmth, the sense of closeness, of ownership, of belonging it gave me (gave us) made that silly old shirt way too important.

It also made my nose itch quite “mysteriously”.  I kept having to scratch it on my shoulder, unavoidably inhaling the scent of incense and deodorant and laundry detergent… and something else, something rich and deep that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

I kept inhaling the scent of him.

And when it was time to leave, to drive 100 miles away, to be gone again for the next month, I involuntarily began to shiver.  Evidently more than just that little bit of my heart and my head that I can control wanted to keep that piece of him with me.

But I handed it back, using all of the self-control I possess to keep myself from clinging to him for one last breath of his essence.

So my stupid black sweater sits on my bed, begging to be washed and worn, but begging to no avail.  Because that scent still clings to my sweater, no matter how faint- mingling him and me and home together into an intoxicating fragrance.

And believe me, it’s faint.  But I’ve sat on this bed and breathed it in so many times, forcing myself to believe he’s closer than we can be, paradoxically assuaging yet intensifying feelings of loneliness and want.

Soon the scent will be gone entirely.  But I have a feeling the sweater will remain.  A testament of hope and longing, the scent that clings to my sweater will remain real to me until he himself is real to me once more.