Every September I struggle with a feeling of unease; the very air smells wrong, warning of impending danger. My shoulder muscles tighten; my body remembers before my mind. It floats just out of reach, keeping my neck kinked and my mind unquiet, until Labor Day, when the memories flood in. My shoulders inch closer toward my ears as September 20 approaches. In September I exist in the halfway world of grief and memory, moving as if underwater, bracing for a hurricane as my friends soak up the last of the summer sun.
This September 20 will mark the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. Each year brings distance and hurts a little less, but with each year I’m more conscious of the distance and that makes his loss hurt more. As my children grow older, I catch glimpses of my father in my son’s sly grin and hysterical laugh, and imagine his response to the irresistible force that is my daughter.
Each September finds me in fierce debate. Should this be the year I finally get rid of his sweaters? Am I hurting myself by keeping them? I take them out of my closet, unfold them, and bury my face in their threads, one by one. I breathe in, searching for Dad in the red cashmere, then the navy cotton.
He’s gone.
But then I nuzzle the nubby knit of a brown sweater, and there, right in the center, is the faintest whiff of Dad.
Is this the year the sweater will lose that smell?
I don’t know, but for now I’ve folded it up and put it back in my closet anyway.
I know. In March. But I know. And I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry. So very sorry. Hugs. Big hugs.
Thinking of you. May you always find his scent, even if it is only on the wind one day.
Thinking of you Angie!
This made me cry, Angie. Keep the sweaters.
This was just lovely. Definitely keep the sweaters. The smell of your Dad will always be there.
Angie, I do the same thing with my grandmother’s jacket. I still have it even after ten years. Thinking about you. xoxo.
Thinking of you today, as you think of your dad. Inhale him as long as you need to. As long as you need to.
I am so sorry for your loss, Angie. I think I would want to hold on to the sweaters, too.
Angie, hugs and kisses from another clothing keeper. The scent doesn’t have to be there for the memory to linger. Keep the sweaters.
So sorry for your loss, Angie. Hold onto those sweaters as long as they bring you comfort. Love to you.
beautifully written. xx
Every time I go back and read some of your stories again, I cry. You have the ability to describe how I feel (as well as how you feel) into beautiful, meaningful words. I too, am a clothes keeper – and the smell of my Dad is still in his jackets. So, keep the garments and the memories. Love you.