“Honey, have you seen my sweatshirt?”
“My favorite one…from college.” Morgan said as he tossed another undesirable sweatshirt from his closet onto his unmade bed.
“Nope. Probably lost.” Ronni replied as she poked her head into the bedroom as if it was levitating without a body.
“Come here and help me look for it. I know it has to be here somewhere. I can’t go without it.”
Morgan’s faded purple and grayed white Northwestern sweatshirt was part nostalgia, part superstition, and zero part style. He didn’t care though. He had bought it the day his father died. He’s not sure why he’s kept it the last 8 years, but for him, it’s been a way to stay connected to his dad and to remind him, not of his death, but of all the moments he cherished with him — mostly as a kid.
All the games of catch that stretched into the night, ending when his mom would call them in, citing her brother who apparently had “once played in the dark and caught a fastball with his teeth,” and the smell of his unmistakable cigars. The sweatshirt itself didn’t smell, but it somehow brought out a sensory memory of them…and him. He wore it every day that semester, even into the early spring when the sun was beginning to get hot. The day he bought the sweatshirt was also the day he met Ronni.