Sitting cross-legged on the bed, a faded navy blue sweatshirt is sprawled out on my lap. My hands slowly move over the worn places and tattered sleeve as the memory comes flooding in.
It was the darkest, most painful time in my life and this sweatshirt belongs to the person who contributed to that. There is manipulation, abuse, and evil entwined in this fabric. A sweatshirt: such an innocent garment whose purpose is to wrap around the body and keep it warm and comfortable. Ironic, isn’t it? To me, it represents just the opposite, yet perversely I find some comfort in the discomfort.
Besides the intangibles that I carry inside me, this is the only thing I kept from that relationship.