She picks her favorites
(two, at most)
each season.
Threadbare here, worn there,
but each a traveling, warm embrace,
offering comfort,
consciously needed or not.

They’re perfectly right
when she dons them in the early morning,
but by sundown,
she’s rolling up her sleeves
every few minutes,
and her shoulders are exposed
fractions of an inch at a time,
reminding her of her mother’s teal tank top
peeking through the ripped collar
of her eighties off-shoulder black sweatshirt.

They smell like coffee, Old Spice, and Lovely.

They feel like curling up with a good novel
late on a Sunday morning.

They look like home.


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