LEDESMABABY

As I sit here on my bed holding this black, soft, cotton, and oversized t-shirt, I get a year and a half full of memories flooding my eyes. Why is a simple black t-shirt making me feel this way?

Not only do I just see a black t-shirt in my hands, I see him standing in front of me, his dark brown eyes looking into mine with a smirk of admiration and gratefulness to be home. I feel the softness of the t-shirt that reminds me of his hands caressing my arms, my back, and my hair.

I feel his hands cupping my face and kissing me. His lips on mine, as I put the shirt on my lips, the taste of his lips somehow outweigh the taste of cotton and lint on the shirt. How is that possible?

The smell of this t-shirt still smells like him, even after months of being folded up in my drawer. It smells like men’s Old Spice body wash; the one he would use to wash his body after working a graveyard shift. It takes me back to those late nights when he would get home from work, get into bed, and pull me close to him with my face in his neck and his soft lips on my forehead.

Shirts aren’t supposed to have a sound to them unless you shake it, but this shirt has the sound of his soft, but also loud voice. The voice that used to be a sense of comfort and safety for me. His laugh that is quiet but has a bit of arrogance in it. I hear his combat boots walking through the door onto the hardwood floor. The sound of velcro from him unstrapping his vest. The sound of him coming home safe is what kept me safe.

How could this simple black t-shirt hold so much power over me emotionally?

I realized it’s the memories that come from this t-shirt. The memories I shared with this person. The person that gave me the shirt off his back. The person who had power over me without knowing he did. I never knew how much power and control he had over me until now, months later and my eyes still flood with tears from losing the person that kept me safe for what felt like a lifetime.