Old check shirt
reduced to shreds
well worn, worn no more
My shirt disintegrated this morning. I shouldn’t complain, it’s done
fifteen years of faithful service, but as I hung out the washing a strange feeling across my back indicated something was amiss. There was no
loud ripping sound, just a quiet pulling apart of well-worn fibres which must
have seen several hundred washes in their time.
Some clothes are easy to farewell, but I recalled where I was when I
purchased it, and why. Travelling around Melbourne to catch up with family and
friends a month after my husband’s funeral, my Mum died unexpectedly. Not
having packed for an occasion of any sort of formality, the necessary shopping
trip produced a blue and white check cotton shirt, which has long been my go-to
staple to wear with jeans either on its own or over a dark blue or white tee
shirt.
It was nothing fancy, far from it, but its tattered state meant it was
beyond repair. I tend to hang on to clothes, and wear them, well after their
use-by date in the fashion stakes, even those picked up in op shops receiving a
second or maybe third lease of life, so for me, throwing something away means
it has definitely reached the end of the road. Even so, it felt somewhat like a
sacrilege opening up the bin as I brought the memory to mind, so I made one final
gesture.
I snipped off its buttons to package and re-sell in the op shop.
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