Your Sweatpants

I’ve essentially lived in your sweat pants for the last year, seven months, and 17 days.

They’ve been my nest, my cocoon, my safe place keeping me close to you.

They were all I wore for over three months after you passed on.

I didn’t want to take them off, because wearing them makes me feel like I’ve still got you here with me.

Like maybe I’m just borrowing them from you, but one of these days you’re going to walk through the door and say, “Ali, give me back my fuckin’ sweatpants!”

Of course I know that’s not going to happen.

So, I’m going to keep wearing them every single day.

The only thing is, I know I’m going to wear them to shreds.

I know I’m going to wear them until they are absolutely falling apart.

I know I’m going to wear them until they are barely wearable anymore.

I know I’m going to repair them, have them fixed when they get holes, have the waist band tightened when it starts to get too stretched out.

I know I’m going to do whatever I can to hold onto them for as long as possible.

Why?

Because I can feel you in them.

These sweatpants are exactly what I remember you wearing all the time at home.

Grey Champion sweat pants and a dirty white tee shirt.

The other day, I spilled some coffee on them and I was so fucking mad at myself for getting anything on them.

When I put them on today, I could see I had gotten them stained with something else.

I can see they’re pilling now more than they were when I took them from your room.

They’re darker grey now than when I got them from how much I’ve been wearing them.

But they’re still your sweatpants.

They’re still what you wore all the time.

They’re still the pants you wore when you wanted to be comfortable and hang out.

Now they’re what I wear all the time.

Now they’re what I wear when I want to be comfortable and hang out.

But they’re also what I wear when I want to feel close to you,

which is basically all of the time.

So, I wear them constantly.

I don’t care that they’re made for men.

I don’t care that they’re a men’s size large or bigger, and I’m a women’s size small.

I don’t care if they’re unflattering on me.

I’m going to keep wearing these things until they’re no longer wearable.

And I’m so fucking scared for them becoming unwearable.

Even then, when I wear them to shreds, I’ll fold up the tattered pieces left behind and keep them somewhere safe.

I’m so fucking scared of ruining them,

or worse — losing them.

I’m holding onto them tightly.

I try and take good care of them,

but unfortunately I stain everything I put on my body.

So, they’re going to keep getting more and more lived in.

And I’m going to keep missing you so, so much as I keep living in them.

Your sweatpants.

One of my connections to you.

Posted on May 9, 2016 and filed under Lifestyle, Grief.