Anatomy of a shirt.

I was cleaning out the closet, going through my seasonal ritual of cleaning out old clothes to give to charities. I happened across a shirt. Heavy wool tartan, thick lining. His favorite workshirt in the fall that Austin pretends is winter.

The shirt.

I did what I always do. What any love junkie in the privacy of their home would do. I lifted it to my face and inhaled deeply. And it did still smell of him. Natural him, clean and soapy with just a hint of fabric softener. No cologne, he rarely wears them. I didn't cry this time. I smiled instead. A knowing smile of accepting the things I cannot change and allowing my feeling of love contained, to breathe.

I hear horror stories of love that went insanely wrong. I hear tales of heartbreak and woe and I know our story will never measure up to most of those. It was a wrong place, wrong time sort of love. All the pieces were there, but we just couldn't seem to make them fit into a cohesive work of art. But there is no hate. No anger. Just a little melancholy smile, a remembrance that our moments together were funny, sweet, warm. Memorable. And ours to remember, exclusively.

I went through a period of hating him...because the cheering section seemed to think it was the thing for me to do.  But...I struggle with hating someone simply because they don't want what I want at that particular moment in time, and hate never looked good on me. After all, I know I played my part in it all. I made choices, and so did he. He lied about some things. So did I. I saw his truths, and he saw mine. We never were really good at weaving tales. We excelled instead at making messes of the facts. And for that, we both share some responsibility and regret.

Couldn't be friends. Not the kind of friend he wanted me to be. Not under the circumstances. Lots of affection, and a long long history has made my lens irreversibly colored. So I keep my distance, and he does the same. We politely check in, but our email-only conversations carefully skim the surface. It's better that way. Cause we know we're apt to make messes. But I can still miss what we did get right. And appreciate that I had it in the time I did. And I do.

So I'm stuck with this shirt. The unyielding part of me wants to bury it back in the corner of the closet. Hide it from myself, to discover it again later, smile and remember. That's the part that also dares to wish that one day he'd return to claim it, and me. The other part of me wants to return it to the rightful owner, because no one should be without their favorite shirt. That's the part of me that accepts what is, and feels ready to move on, albeit on shaky new legs. The final part of me, wants to donate it to someone else...on his behalf. That's the little bohemian in me that likes the notion of clearing us both of the ties that have bound us. But I suppose that's not really my "job." Until I sort out what to do...I think I'll just sit with it for a while. Maybe it will tell me where it wants to go.

Good thing is...when I sit with things, the best solution always comes.  And its like my friend Bev always used to say. "If you don't know what to do...do nothing."