I still have that t-shirt you let me borrow, the blank gray one with no discernible features other than its basic neckline and criss cross stitching along the hem.
Usually it’s buried deep beneath a tower of old shirts at the bottom of my second drawer on the right, sometimes I grab it by accident and before I know it I’m wearing it around the house, times like right now as I type this.
The signature cologne you wear has long since been worn away by wash after wash, the only thing left is the faint smell of green apples from my detergent that reminds me of home when I need it most; it keeps me grounded, focused on what’s ahead of me instead of behind.
I would never confess to others that I kept this, the hypocrisy that would underly all of the advice I’ve given to others would come to light; but out of all the things I’ve kept from you, the bracelet, the stuffed animals, the poloroid of us in my kitchen that resides on my wall—none hold a candle to this simple weaving of cotton I wear.
Because in another life, a life that seems so far away at this point, you wore it too.
And you never asked for it back.