Ode to a Favorite Old Shirt

Torn at the collar, thin worn sleeves pushed to elbows... my threadbare old friend.

What is it about a favorite old shirt that keeps us from knowing when its time has come? Soft and faded, full of memories and sagging perfectly, this old gal cannot leave home anymore unless she is headed for the mulch pile or the open trail. I’ll throw her out when she no longer stays on my shoulders I guess. Or maybe before that if I happen on a replacement.

There were others along the way. A deep burgundy St. John's Bay fleece from my MIL that I buried with first cat, Waldo. A thin red flannel keeper from my Toronto years with tiny tan and black boats. (That one had become merely a memento in the closet long before I finally cut ties.) Another flannel, sage green with small tan leaves, suddenly stopped bringing me joy so I tossed her on the To Go pile with self-satisfaction.

But this one is my first-ever Shenandoah National Park tee, all cotton and the perfect blue. Maybe I’ll just keep her for a little while longer.