by Lauren Agrella-Sevilla
I have a twenty-five year old fleece pullover I still wear everywhere when the weather is cool.
It’s dark green.
Thinning in places.
It’s got a new zipper, just ten years old, replaced when the old one broke.
Threads are tearing at the hems, giving them a ragged look.
My stomach drops when I think I may have left it somewhere.
I have a picture of myself at 19, earnest, serious, one of just a handful of photos taken of me during my college rowing career.
My face is soft, rounder, so few lines around the eyes and mouth.
I sit tall and poised.
I am simply rowing, stroke after forward stroke.
In this photo, my arms are extended long ahead of me, the oar just dipping into its power in the water.
When my mother bought it for me – it was that long ago! – she had never paid so much for a single garment in her life, she said, save her wedding dress.
I remember that conversation at the outdoor store, her eyes wide at the price tag.
That’s how much she wanted to care for me.
Seeing the fleece hanging on a hook at my house in the mudroom, above our sons’ pile of muddy shoes next to a pile of tools my husband hopes to one day repair, comforts me.
Somehow (I think I believe it), I hold within me that same girl who adventured in the Absaroka Beartooths in Montana,
Who traveled to Alaska,
Ran marathons,
Spent weeks biking through Nova Scotia,
Moved alone to New Mexico,
Showed up in Ghana, naive and so young, determined to make a difference.
The fleece is dull. I would choose something louder now, with more umph and energy.
But it is perfect in its imperfection.
How many miles has this garment run with me?
How many closets in how many houses in how many states has it found a place?
How many conversations has it witnessed?
How many campfires?
And how many friends, some now gone, have I hugged wearing it?
I tell myself stuff doesn’t matter, that I’m willing to be done with all of it. Let it go.
Sometimes it’s true.
