wearing the past

I don’t really know how old the shirt is. But I know it is old. Old enough for me to not clearly remember when it was bought, nor when I started wearing it. Its still crisp, though, and its not starched. The stripes still stand out, it soft blue lines like equally gentle reminders of a past- one of bigger clothes, aspiring to formal attires; blazers, ties and tweed.
All his.

Then, slowly, some started tightening. Loosing their grip on me by tightening it- shortening the sleeves, choking the arms, outgrowing my wardrobe. His wardrobe. Yet some remained, courtesy different styling or bad fits, or just a touch of luck. Years passed, then they became relics. Mere symbols, mere value (if there is any such thing).
Remembrances in storage.

Yet this one lasts. Defying sense, and age, it lasts. Defying fabric tendencies, it remains, obdurately affectionate in its supposedly impersonal touch. Clinging on to my body like love tries to cling on to memories, for they are all it has. Clinging, yet not desperately.
But is it the shirt that clings…or is it I?

Does it matter? For it remains, seemingly plucked from the past only just now, with the sole purpose of holding me, gladdening me, touching me, reminding me. Of letting me enjoy that I own it.

Or rather, that I don’t own it. But it is somehow mine, in my wardrobe- and I wouldn't have it any other way.