Objects get weighted down with life’s intangibles.
Whenever I see “The Secret Garden” sitting on my bookcase will I remember how I read it the day I found out the news of someone dying? And will I keep the book because I like it or because it reminds me that this life is real?
When I was first given the hoodie I’m wearing right now, it was fluffy and warm and fitted well. I wore it and felt relatively pretty (for hoodies are hard to feel pretty in. They’re designed for comfort, not flattery). I wore it in public.
Many washes later, it’s baggy, even for a hoodie, and stretched and worn and faded and ugly. I don’t feel ugly in it, it’s simply that the hoodie itself is ugly. Instead of seeing it as that lovely new jumper that made me feel pretty, I see it as the jumper I wear when I need comfort, when I fall asleep sad, when I want to be anonymous, when even if I see another person, I don’t care enough to change.
Will I throw it out one day, or will it forever remain the jumper I wore when nothing I else owned matched my mood?
But what changed? One day it was my pretty jumper I made sure not to ruin, now it’s a jumper that doesn’t have care woven into it. Sometimes an article of clothing has no grief attached to it, but then something bad happens to us while we’re wearing it. After that, we can’t see it the same, for it becomes ‘that’ clothing.’ Just as “The Secret Garden” will no longer be a simple children’s classic book. It will be the book I read when I couldn’t do anything else.
I don’t know.