The Sweatshirt

Funny how the smallest things,
ignored and taken for granted,
become our cherished artifacts,
when life takes an unexpected turn.
The sweatshirt on my bathroom door,
red and slightly frayed,
was nothing more than warm,
until you left.

In the beginning it was put away,
to hold and keep forever,
and then it was taken out,
to wear,
and cry,
and remember.
Then it was left out,
occasionally falling on the floor,
and now it is hanging,
casually tossed,
on my bathroom door.

It makes think of you,
in study rooms,
and lecture halls,
the places you will always be.
It’s still sad you can’t move beyond them,
into courtrooms and offices,
playgrounds and parks,
but I think you might be happy
among the stacks and books.

I wear it when it’s cold,
and when I need a hug.
I wear it
and remember you.
But it’s losing it’s sense of artifact,
it’s a sweatshirt,
not a shrine,
and though I still miss you,
It’s not all the time.