His Shirt

Dear... You, I guess. 

No, it can’t be to you. That’s insane. No way.

Dear, Diary

I can’t sleep.

Okay. Wow. Way better. This is actually a good start. I’m not quite sure what I should write about. But this pen feels good on the paper. It's one of the really nice glidey ones.

Swooooooosh. 

Dr. Goodman told me to write when I can’t sleep. I asked him how that could possibly help, as you can’t exactly sleep when you’re writing, but he told me to do it anyways. I hope he asks me to read this to him during our next session. Hi Doc! Welcome to my three am! How are you? 

I asked him what I should write about. He said write about what's around me.

Lamp.

Bed.

Blanket.

Desk. 

Ugly painting that my mother in law gave me that I can’t get rid of because I have nothing else to put there and I’d rather have an ugly painting than a blank wall.

Second lamp.

Door. 

Space Heater. 

Carpet. 

I feel like I’m purposefully avoiding talking about the shirt. It's in my lap and I’m still don’t want to write it. I don’t have enough ink, enough pages, enough time.

Well maybe I have enough time. I don’t think I’m sleeping tonight.

Shirt.

It was his favorite.

God, for so many years I was sick of it, every date night, every party, every- well, everything! Now I wash it every sunday. 

He was wearing it the first time we met. It was at a roller rink. I was there ironically, dressed up all 70’s with my old college friends, wearing a white leather mini skirt, hoop earrings and a horrible giant afro wig. 

Doc this was before it was problematic. (thank god there aren’t any pictures of that.) He was there on a work retreat with his idiot coworkers. In the shirt, his shirt.

 I swear it was more blue back then. I mean, it makes sense that it would lose some of its color over the years, but back then it was blue blue. Maybe it was just the lights in the roller rink, I don’t know. I’d love to say it was love at first sight, I really would. Or that maybe I fell roller skating and he caught me, dramatically and romantically. That would be so nice, but no, his sleazeball coworker friend started chatting up my friend Sheila. They hit it off. Meanwhile, me and Harry, we were just along for the ride, making polite conversation out of necessity while our friends made out by the vending machines. It's funny how it all worked itself out. They had sex that night, and he never called her back. Him and I did our best to keep them seperate, and they never saw each other again; that is until our wedding when she was a bridesmaid and he was a regrettable groomsman. I’ll always remember that rehearsal dinner. 

    “Hey there, I know this is forward of me, but I’m Troy, after this would you wanna get out of here?”

    “Do you not remember me?”

    “From where?”

    I heard that slap from across the room. She had some sort of funky ring on too, his face was scratched for the wedding photos the next day. The best part of the wedding weekend. Hilarious.

He wore the shirt that day too. On our wedding day! I honestly couldn’t believe it, I didn’t even notice. But he told me on our one year anniversary, we went to the photo album, and low and behold, his shirt was a different shade of blue than any of his groomsmen.  He said it was because he was nervous. The shirt was familiar to him, he said it calmed him down. Him! Nervous! Mr. Calm Cool Collected. That's the first and last time I ever remember him being nervous.

Washing it every Sunday with the rest of my laundry feels strange sometimes. Not sometimes like every time, sometimes like one in ten. Most of the time it's nice. For a second every Sunday things are normal again. I fold it, leave it on his side of the bed like I always used to, and then put it back in the basket the next Sunday. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, maybe just an outlet, and emotional habit, maybe I’m a slave to nostalgia and routine, I don’t know. Every one of my therapists all had their own separate view towards it. (Sorry doc, you’re not the first.) I just think of it as a thing I do, it doesn’t hurt me. I hardly ever cry anymore, and when I do, I just squeeze the shirt close to my chest and feel a lot better. 

Sometimes I look it over, making sure none of the buttons are coming loose, or that all the seams, and all the twice repaired seams are still holding tight. If I were to ever ruin this shirt, I would never forgive myself. I often think about the hypothetical scenario where if someone were to mug me on the way home from the laundromat, I’d let them shoot me before I gave up his shirt. It's a strange, morbid thing to think about, but I’m comforted by it somehow. Maybe I’d go to heaven, and he’d ask how I died, and I’d tell him, and he’d just be so happy.

Sheila thinks I should get it framed. “Put it where that ugly painting is, make your room more ‘you’”.

Personally I think she’s insane. If writing to my dead husband is crazy then framing his shirt and putting it on the wall would earn me my spot on the nuthouse. Shirts aren’t for presenting. They’re for wearing. Not that I would ever wear his shirt. It wouldn’t fit me. It’d feel cold and empty around me. I haven’t even tried wearing it, but I know it’d make me cry. 

Maybe I could burn it, like a cremation, spread the ashes over where you’re buried.

Where he’s buried. Wow I am exhausted. I can’t even keep it straight who I’m writing to. You? Dr. Goodman? The journal itself? 

Maybe if I write to you it’d be better. Dr. Goodman won't want to read this. This composition notebook doesn’t have eyes, or a brain. He said it was just for me. So why can’t I decide who I’m writing to? Why can’t I write to you?

Dear You,

This is terrifying. I don’t know why. You’ve been dead for a year and you’ll never read this, but still I’m shaking.

I miss you. 

I miss you and I don’t know what to write and I don’t know how to sleep anymore and I don’t know what to do with this shirt. 

If I bury it away in a box somewhere in the closet will you hate me? 

If I burn it will you forgive me? 

Are ghosts real? Do you possess this shirt? Is that why I can’t decide what to do with it?

I miss you.

This bed is too big and this shirt sucks when you’re not in it. It's just cloth and buttons and I know it was your favorite but I hate it. I hate that it's here and you’re not. Why can’t stupid dumb shirts get leukemia? Why can’t stupid shirts go through chemo. 

I’d trade every shirt in this whole house to have you back. I miss you.

I miss how your buttons used to scratch my ear when you fell asleep in it.

 I miss how you’d tear the house apart looking for it just to find I had put it on your bed and your pillow just so happened to be covering it. 

Dear You,

Last night, writing helped a lot. I cried all over the pages and the ink got all runny, but I think all I needed was to write the word “pillow”. It’s a little big for the pillow but if I tie the sleeves around the back of it it snugs up nice and tight. 

It's the perfect pillow case, and now I have a reason to wash it. I can feel the buttons scratch my ear when I sleep. Doctor Goodman talks a lot about conscious versus subconscious. I’m so tired that most of it goes over my head. All I know is that my awake mind knows you’re gone. It’s aware that someday I’ll love again, and someday I won’t cry, and someday I will find a new pillowcase. But my asleep mind shouldn’t have to worry about that. I’ll rest in this familiar place. The smell of the expensive fabric softener you like, the feel of the twice stitched seams under my fingernails, the fabric that you liked the most, that gave you the confidence to marry me. 

With your shirt beneath my head this bed doesn’t feel so big.

Dear You,

I sleep really well most often. I cut back to seeing Dr. Goodman once every two weeks. 

I think I’m going to stop writing for a while. If I ever need to again, you’ll be right on my nightstand table. 

Goodnight love. I miss you and I always will. Thanks for lending me your shirt.