Prompt: Write about an article of clothing that was meaningful at some point

I had just packed my car and was downing my last sip of cold brew, when my mom placed her hand on my shoulder.

“Honey, before you leave could you quickly check the box I left in your room? I want to take it to Goodwill this week but want to make sure there’s nothing in there you want to keep first.”

I forced back a groan and gave her a tight smile while I glanced at my watch. I’d wanted to hit the road an hour ago to beat traffic and she’d already insisted I couldn’t leave without something in my stomach.

“You should have mentioned this last night when I wasn’t in a rush to leave, but yeah sure, I can take a look.”

“Well, I didn’t think of it last night and besides I don’t know why you’re in such a rush anyway. You can always call me if you hit traffic and are bored.”

It was an unsatisfactory answer but getting into it would only delay my drive further. I sighed and trudged up the stairs to my bedroom, scanning the floor.

“I don’t see it,” I yelled down.

“Try the closet.”

Sure enough, a cardboard box was neatly tucked into my closet beside my dresser, the overlapping panels bulging where she had stuffed it to the brim.

I pulled it out and began flipping through the items—old sweaters and tees from high school, my track uniform, a dress my mom had bought me that I’d never worn. I was about to push the box back into the closet when something caught my eye—a pastel blue peeking through the sea of black, grey and nuetral tones. Sarah Beth’s sweater.

I carefully pulled it out and despite the twinge of pain I felt, I smiled as I held it for the first time in years, feeling the threads between my fingers. It was soft in the way she was soft. Light in the way she was light. I could still see it draped around her shoulders that night on the bleachers after the football game. My heart had jumped when she’d leaned forward, laughing and placed her hand on my leg.

I fell quickly and I fell hard. Sarah Beth never let me tell anyone that we were dating. Her father was a deacon at the church, and she joked about how she’d be estranged like her mother’s sister if she ever came out.

“I guess we’ll just have to run away together,” she’d teased when I asked her what that meant for us, dismissing the question as she leaned in for a kiss.

To our parents, we were best friends, but I suspect my mother knew and hers was suspicious. Her mom would purse her lips every time I entered, as if she was always holding in something she wanted to say.  

 We’d close ourselves off from the world in my bedroom under the guise of studying. She would nestle herself in the nook of my arm and we’d talk about our future as I stroked her long blond hair. “We could adopt two kids,” she said. “One boy and one girl. And we’d definitely have dogs.”

“I kinda want a cat too,” I told her. “I like that you have to earn your keep with cats. They don’t love just anyone; you have to work for it.”

“Why would you want to work for a pet’s love,” she said, flipping onto her stomach to look me in the eyes. “Isn’t the best part of having a dog that it loves you so easily?”

A month before graduation, she broke up with me and I didn’t see it coming. To her, we had been playing house—I was a sweet idea but beyond the realm of reality.

We held each other and cried until it was finally time for her to leave. I pulled her sweater out of my top drawer and went to hand it to her. Even though my dad only kept the AC at 65, she always complained about being cold.  
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“Keep it,” she said, gently pushing it back toward me. I held it tight against my chest and let myself keep crying as I watched her walk out of my room.