My new favorite sweatshirt did not always belong to me.
It is an extra-large black sweatshirt from Walmart that my Papa picked out for himself years ago.
I remember him wearing it from time to time, though it looked nothing like it does now.
The sleeves have been cut off now.
It happened after a night in sixth grade. I remember screaming, crying, and my mom sitting on the couch with blood and tears.
Where was he?
My mom was put in an arm cast after that night, and my papa cut off the sleeves of the sweatshirt because she no longer had shirts that would fit over the plaster mess that only seemed to remind me of my father. Who was still nowhere to be found.
She would wear one of the two sweatshirts, the black one or the tan one.
I would come out to watch her sitting on the couch, doing her nails, or trying to paint her cast with the polish.
Nights where I would come out and see her play Mario Kart, watch her hold back tears while trying to open a strawberita, or try to sing along to "man in the mirror". She was wearing them.
A few years later, after everyone had recovered, while i still was there, we went through her clothes together, and she offered me both of the dark-enshrouded sweatshirts.
I accepted, I will wear anything big and baggy.
Every time I saw them in my closet, I was sad.
I remembered the ones who wore them before me, and I picture the moments I saw them in them.
I would do my best to laugh it off, though. I think that’s the thing with noise: It doesn’t matter if you laugh or cry about it; it is still there.
It was not supposed to be my favorite sweatshirt.
One night, my roommate was hosting craft night.
I had forgotten about it; I had a friend over and everything. However, they were bleaching shirts, and I had always wanted to try it.
I had not prepared before, so I went into my room and searched for something black.
That’s when I saw it again.
This time, the first thing I thought was not, “Oh, remember when that happened? How awful was that?”
Instead, all I could think about was how perfect it would be to decorate something that used to make me so sad.
So I put hearts, peace signs, and the zentangles I do when I am overwhelmed all over it.
I put a giant sun on the back of it, splashed random bleach all over it. I put time and effort into it.
It is now my favorite sweatshirt;
I turned something that used to make me sick with sadness into my favorite thing.
Isn’t that so beautiful?
What else can I do this with?
It is an extra-large black sweatshirt from Walmart that my Papa picked out for himself years ago.
I remember him wearing it from time to time, though it looked nothing like it does now.
The sleeves have been cut off now.
It happened after a night in sixth grade. I remember screaming, crying, and my mom sitting on the couch with blood and tears.
Where was he?
My mom was put in an arm cast after that night, and my papa cut off the sleeves of the sweatshirt because she no longer had shirts that would fit over the plaster mess that only seemed to remind me of my father. Who was still nowhere to be found.
She would wear one of the two sweatshirts, the black one or the tan one.
I would come out to watch her sitting on the couch, doing her nails, or trying to paint her cast with the polish.
Nights where I would come out and see her play Mario Kart, watch her hold back tears while trying to open a strawberita, or try to sing along to "man in the mirror". She was wearing them.
A few years later, after everyone had recovered, while i still was there, we went through her clothes together, and she offered me both of the dark-enshrouded sweatshirts.
I accepted, I will wear anything big and baggy.
Every time I saw them in my closet, I was sad.
I remembered the ones who wore them before me, and I picture the moments I saw them in them.
I would do my best to laugh it off, though. I think that’s the thing with noise: It doesn’t matter if you laugh or cry about it; it is still there.
It was not supposed to be my favorite sweatshirt.
One night, my roommate was hosting craft night.
I had forgotten about it; I had a friend over and everything. However, they were bleaching shirts, and I had always wanted to try it.
I had not prepared before, so I went into my room and searched for something black.
That’s when I saw it again.
This time, the first thing I thought was not, “Oh, remember when that happened? How awful was that?”
Instead, all I could think about was how perfect it would be to decorate something that used to make me so sad.
So I put hearts, peace signs, and the zentangles I do when I am overwhelmed all over it.
I put a giant sun on the back of it, splashed random bleach all over it. I put time and effort into it.
It is now my favorite sweatshirt;
I turned something that used to make me sick with sadness into my favorite thing.
Isn’t that so beautiful?
What else can I do this with?
