Maybe it’s the novelty of the item, the fresh experience that creates such a desire to hold onto the object. A new look, or color, or feeling unknown against my familiar skin, captivating my attention, forcing a resistance to the good karmic feelings that follow washing, folding, and returning. I long to hold onto this object that belongs to you.
Maybe it’s the closeness to the owner I feel when I wear it, use it. Heather’s shorts, Joan’s pants, Isabel’s boots, Ross’s hat. Their stories are woven into the fabric, worn into the leather. The stories that are also woven with the fabric of my own life, that are worn into the texture of my own skin.
I want this object you’ve given to me, as my own. Every time I see the bumper sticker taken from Mackie, I smile, thinking of the madness of that March night, dancing foolishly in the grunge and grime of some unknown basement. A foolish frenzy of drunken friends, we didn’t know who’s house it was and we didn’t care that until the seven of us arrived, the volume of their music had been low, as was the tone of their night.
A twang of pain, like one plucked guitar string, every time I put on Andrew’s Ralph Lauren boxers. I wore them every night that I stayed over, eventually given to me on my birthday. The boxers remind me of my heart that December, not broken, but bruised. I sometimes wonder if I dreamed a whole semester of my life. The boxers, though. Proof that it happened, that words were said, that strong feelings were felt, that I’m not crazy.
I wear this nail polish every day, Kelly, because when I put it on I think of how you hated spiders and how I hated your screaming when you saw a spider. And I realize that I miss you, though I don’t miss your screaming.
Liane’s XO button; the one sorority symbol that I took with me to this new place and life. I Heart XO it says. But I don’t heart XO. I love Liane though, and I hope she understood my leaving, and I hope she knows how much I appreciated and still do appreciate her.
Even Joan’s ugly butterfly socks. I choose to wear them on days when other socks would fair better, warmer, sexier. But I miss her and wish she was not in Ireland, wish she was making breakfast at midnight with me in her house, sliding around on her floor in her ugly butterfly socks.
Jordan’s white T that he gave to me that very first night we stumbled to my suite in a drunken stupor, I sometimes still pull it on before bed, pausing to sniff in case any sign of his scent has stayed hidden in the white threads. I pull it on and remember the masterful massages, the only passion felt during those months. You drove by me on Church Street, looked at me, turned away. The sting of the night air magnified by the sting of your ignorance. But I still have your T-shirt, a reminder of when we were close, when you called me “little bitty” and bought me a rose and chocolates on Valentine’s day.
I do not love these things because they aren’t mine. I love them, simply, because they are yours. Pieces of you that I can carry with me as I travel through this crazy whirlwind of a life. Tangible memories, proof like paper that you and I were there and we were there together. Some of them used every day, staple products in my daily life, a demonstration of my dependence. Some of them lay tucked away, safe from the sight of others, closed in the darkness of my closet. These go by unworn and unnoticed, until the day I dig through drawers and discover Charlie’s basketball shorts.
The people in my life are what make it. I carry them in my heart, and often in my suitcase.
