The Matter of Impressions

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to wrap into the royal blue coat my mother wore. The floor length covering seemed to wrap me within a scented cloud. I could smell the rich perfumes my mother would wear. I felt closer to her because she had left part of herself in the coat.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to sit in my father’s walking jacket. Grey and overlarge, the arms would hang off my fingertips. I could pull my knees against my belly and zip the jacket over them, up to my chin. I could smell his sweat and hints of the fields he walked past. I felt closer to him because he had left part of himself in the jacket.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to hide underneath my brother’s blanket. Black and slate, the blanket smothered me as substitute for the hugs he would never give me. I could smell his fresh cologne as I would spin into a large roll against the wall, imagining his strength. I felt closer to him because he left part of himself in the blanket.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. Who could tell what you may have left behind for others to cherish? Perhaps you discarded an old blue coat, a dirty grey jacket, or a useless blanket that has been the treasured covering of a young child, desperate for love and closeness. What you had once used without thought has become a symbolic piece of you for another to find comfort in. You left a piece of yourself for others to be close to.