It was the night before I had to move out of the dorm, and I still hadn’t finished packing. Thankfully my roommate had already left, so I could leave my things all over the room as I sorted through what I needed to take home, what I could leave at my brother’s, and what I needed to get rid of.
Until I picked up a zip-up hoodie, and then it was as though time stopped. I had to sit down to catch my breath for a moment as I stared at this old, soft hoodie, the color of chocolate. It was clean, but a little too worn out to wear anywhere but at home. But looking at it, all I could think of was my father. Because he used to wear this, and I could see him now, opening the door to us on a Saturday night as my mother dropped us off. I could see my little brother and me sitting at the kitchen table, telling my father all that had happened since Wednesday when we’d gone to our mother’s, as he made a large omelet with cheese and tomatoes and spinach and meat. He’d push up the sleeves of his hoodie as he stood over the hot stove, laughing at our stories and telling us some of his own.
He’d wake us up on Sunday mornings in a hurry, going straight back to his study as soon as he saw we were awake. I’d take him a plate of toast and butter and jam a little later, when my brother and I were eating our own breakfast. He’d smile gratefully, looking up from his sermon notes for an instant, as he pushed back the sleeves of the hoodie and made place on the table to set the plate down.
The brown hoodie was my mother’s, he had once told me. Somehow it had been forgotten when she’d left, probably because it was so old and she rarely wore it. I don’t remember how I came to start wearing it. But here it was among my clothes now, and as I folded it and put it in the donation bag, my heart broke a little.
The next morning I overslept and woke up only when my older brother called to say he was leaving and would be at my dorm in an hour. I ate and dressed in a rush, packing away the last of my things. I grabbed the bags of clothes and went down to the donation box. It was overflowing with clothes, but people had left bags on the floor by it, so I set mine there too. And as I put them down, I caught sight of the hoodie once more.
And once again I could see him, and this was some years later, coming out of his room, eyes still sleepy as he ruffled my brother’s hair at the table and kissed my forehead. In a few minutes we’d be walking down to the bus stop, just him and me, where I’d comment on the poor sleepy shop assistants sweeping the sidewalk and arranging the stands while the shop owners looked on.
I cried on the way back to my room, cried for the loss of the simple innocence of childhood, for the easy, uncomplicated relationship I’d once had with my father, for the cold, unbridgeable gap that now existed between us, and how by giving away the hoodie it felt like this gap was only growing wider.
I was almost done. All that was left was my folders and books, and a pile of clothes that I was donating because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn them. I decided to tackle the clothes first. Folding them and putting them into a plastic bag to leave in the donation box in the morning. No big deal. I had music playing in the background, and I was distracted as I folded, not really looking at the clothes.
Until I picked up a zip-up hoodie, and then it was as though time stopped. I had to sit down to catch my breath for a moment as I stared at this old, soft hoodie, the color of chocolate. It was clean, but a little too worn out to wear anywhere but at home. But looking at it, all I could think of was my father. Because he used to wear this, and I could see him now, opening the door to us on a Saturday night as my mother dropped us off. I could see my little brother and me sitting at the kitchen table, telling my father all that had happened since Wednesday when we’d gone to our mother’s, as he made a large omelet with cheese and tomatoes and spinach and meat. He’d push up the sleeves of his hoodie as he stood over the hot stove, laughing at our stories and telling us some of his own.
He’d wake us up on Sunday mornings in a hurry, going straight back to his study as soon as he saw we were awake. I’d take him a plate of toast and butter and jam a little later, when my brother and I were eating our own breakfast. He’d smile gratefully, looking up from his sermon notes for an instant, as he pushed back the sleeves of the hoodie and made place on the table to set the plate down.
The brown hoodie was my mother’s, he had once told me. Somehow it had been forgotten when she’d left, probably because it was so old and she rarely wore it. I don’t remember how I came to start wearing it. But here it was among my clothes now, and as I folded it and put it in the donation bag, my heart broke a little.
The next morning I overslept and woke up only when my older brother called to say he was leaving and would be at my dorm in an hour. I ate and dressed in a rush, packing away the last of my things. I grabbed the bags of clothes and went down to the donation box. It was overflowing with clothes, but people had left bags on the floor by it, so I set mine there too. And as I put them down, I caught sight of the hoodie once more.
And once again I could see him, and this was some years later, coming out of his room, eyes still sleepy as he ruffled my brother’s hair at the table and kissed my forehead. In a few minutes we’d be walking down to the bus stop, just him and me, where I’d comment on the poor sleepy shop assistants sweeping the sidewalk and arranging the stands while the shop owners looked on.
I cried on the way back to my room, cried for the loss of the simple innocence of childhood, for the easy, uncomplicated relationship I’d once had with my father, for the cold, unbridgeable gap that now existed between us, and how by giving away the hoodie it felt like this gap was only growing wider.
