Top Shelf Stardust

 He found it.

The fabric has long since faded--the black not so black, the inside more scratchy than soft. The white print of the logo is cracked and peeling, not decipherable. Pristinely folded, it’s occupied the most hidden crevice of my closet for more time than I can believe. Anyone would assume I’d forgotten it.

“Skater girl,” he teases, pulling the sweatshirt down from my top shelf. He shakes out worn cotton, and the folds exhale a fine cloud of dust. Every floating particle is a memory.

                

I almost scream when he reaches to shove the stupid old hoodie in a bag of clothing destined for Goodwill.

                

He asks why, so I tell him about you.

I tell him it was a long time ago.

(I don’t tell him my favorite smell will always be Cherry Rush ZigZags mixed with clean laundry or that I still can’t listen to Bright Eyes.)

               

I tell him we were kids.

(I don’t tell him the scars I bear inside are shaped like the ones I got falling off your board or that for every smudge on my old Chucks, you left a fingerprint on my soul.)

I tell him it doesn’t matter now.

(I don’t tell him I would have died for you then.)

                

He says I’m funny and chuckles my nostalgia away as he hands back what I have left of you.  I let him laugh, because, really, what would he say if he knew I’ll think about the summer we met for the rest of my life?

Reviews

[samparks,sam]

you are really nice I read and then say