It was only a sweatshirt- a hoodie, to be more accurate…and not even anything special at that…except that it was from Rice University in Houston. A few square feet of grey cotton, comfortable and warm and, except for the logo, thoroughly indistinguishable from any of the other gray hoodies hanging in his closet. Except that this one WAS different. When She would spend the weekends at his place, She always wore the sweatshirt late at night or when She woke up. Being a woman, She was always cold, so She bundled up in the sweatshirt and a pair of his socks. Being a good deal smaller than the sweatshirt’s owner, it covered Her like a blanket, the lower hem hanging well below Her knees and the sleeves rolled up so Her hands wouldn’t be swallowed by the sweatshirt’s arms. It looked good…no, it looked great…on Her, and as time went by it became Hers by default. Though it hung in his closet, he ceded any rights to the sweatshirt to Her, no longer feeling it appropriate to wear it, as if doing so would somehow break the spell. The sweatshirt became completely and totally Hers, not through any conscious decision (at least not so far as he could recall), but eventually the idea of wearing it himself seemed somehow…wrong. Wearing it, She was the picture of loveliness- comfortable, adorable, and cute as a button in a way that only the completely smitten could understand. For him to wear it would reduce it to the status of just another article of clothing hanging in his closet. When you find magic, you nurture and preserve it at all costs. Failing to do so…well, who knows what might happen, right?
When She wasn’t around, he could look at the sweatshirt hanging in this closet and feel the warmth of knowing the time would soon come when She would again be wearing it. In time, the sweatshirt came to bear Her smell, and he luxuriated in the memories that smell triggered. It was comforting and it set his mind at ease, even though She could be a challenge and the relationship had more than its fair share of turbulent times. The sweatshirt became the constant, a symbol of something greater than himself, and something worth preserving and cherishing. And so, when She wasn’t around, the sweatshirt hung in his closet, testimony to what had come before and what (hopefully) was still to come.
Inevitably, as so often happens, love turned to dust and She left, though the sweatshirt retained its place of honor. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but the sweatshirt remained implacably in its place. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to wear the sweatshirt- Her sweatshirt. Though the magic it had possessed had left with Her when She departed the scene, the memories were simply too much, as if the sweatshirt still somehow contained and refused to relinquish Her essence. He knew this was ridiculous, of course, and that he was too old and sensible to be imputing such magical qualities to a few square feet of cotton…but there it was. Weekends would come and go, and as he rummaged through the hangers in his closet, he would stop at the sweatshirt, even if only for a moment, and the memories would come rushing back. He could still picture Her, stumbling out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from Her eyes as the sweatshirt almost swallowed Her whole. He could remember how She felt as She curled up next to him on his couch with the morning paper and a cup of coffee. Her smell, the sounds She made, the solid, sensuous feel of Her weight against him- it all came rushing back as the sweatshirt stared back at him. It was Her, and even though She was gone, almost certainly never to return…it was still Hers.
Finally, he recognized one day that the time had come to break the spell. He could no longer live in the past, and he could no longer hang that past on a sweatshirt, which had transformed itself from a mere article of clothing into an anchor. He carefully removed the sweatshirt from the hanger that had supported it for so long, and he allowed himself to embrace the softness of the cotton. As he thought about how it had looked on Her, and how much that had meant to him, he began to realize that the sweater was just a thing, redolent only of whatever symbolism he chose to imbue it with. He recognized that it was time to let go, time to move on, time to stop acting like a lovesick schoolboy…and time to put the damn thing on.
After a few moment’s trepidation, he began to pull the sweatshirt slowly over his head as he considered how odd it felt to be wearing Her sweatshirt again. As it settled about his shoulders, he walked into the bathroom and considered what he saw in the mirror. He was struck by how comfortable it felt, how good it looked on him…and he realized how much he had missed wearing it. It was a sweatshirt…nothing more. She was gone, and She wasn’t coming back…but he still had the sweatshirt. It was no longer Hers…and it was really nothing more than just a few square feet of cotton designed to keep him warm. It was then that he knew he could move on. The spell was broken. After all, it was just a damn sweatshirt, right?
