I never dreamed I would wear it to bed every night. At first, it was simpler to reach for it, hanging on my “nightgown” nail in the closet. How did it get there? Did it follow me home?
The shirt was never a favorite—never an obsession. But, every
night I depended on it to help me sleep. Also, I could throw it into my laundry
bag along with my other cotton clothes. A plaid flannel shirt doesn't need to
be coddled. It only needs to be worn.
I have no memory how it got into my home. The shirt began
life and lived in another state. I would have had to drive across state
borders, carry it out of that house, and walk up one flight of stairs into my
apartment. My first memory was to see it hang on that nail in my closet and the
many nights I grabbed for it. No matter. Startled, I would feel its softness as
I slid my arms into its sleeves. I would feel its embrace.
I wore it night after night, month after month, laundry
after laundry. The shirt lost its original colors and faded into neutral. It
began to look like a dust rag.
"I can't give it up," I said one day at lunch.
"It's beginning to shred and, once it's gone, I know I won't sleep
again."
My quilter friend asked, "Does it have a pocket?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you cut off the pocket and sew it onto
something else and wear that to bed?"
Only a quilter would see and understand the importance of a
pocket and find a place for it. I would never look at quilts the same again.
But I also knew it was time to say goodbye. I carefully folded the shredded
no-longer plaid flannel shirt and placed it in a drawer.
That night, I prepared for bed. I found one of my frilly
silly nightgowns, put it on, walked to the photograph of my mother and father,
and said, "Goodbye Daddy."
I slept that night.
Published in "Prairie Light Review" Vol. XXXVIII
No. 2, p.45 (including artwork).
Kotyuk©
If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not
working hard enough. Kotyuk©
