Old Thing
On Sundays, I used to watch him from the window by the second floor balcony. My toes would curl around the strands of our shaggy carpet, as I’d watch his breath mix with the October air. My dad would rake up piles of leaves or pull up thick, braided weeds with ornament-like bulbs. Around Christmastime, he’d perch like a sitting hen on a ladder, stringing lights across the gutter line. He’d never ask you how you thought they looked or compliment himself, but you could see the slightest glimpse at a humble man’s pride when he’d raise his brow in approval.
That old thing would make its annual appearance each fall. A heather gray Badgers crewneck from the 80s. As much shit as we’d give him for it, I quietly loved that old thing. It awoke a certain nostalgia, like the start of football season or the warm glow of incandescent Christmas tree lights. LEDs are a pitfall to humanity.
That sweater was older than me, and he’d let anyone know it if they were to ask. It was in fact from undergrad, and boy did it look like it. The ribbing around the neck and wrists had tiny holes that looked as if the shirt was disintegrating. Its once-fuzzy insides were matted to a pilled and felt-like material. But the fabric was thick, as the older it got the more it resembled the feeling of a worn-in teddy bear. And even after all those years, Bucky Badger would sit smugly on the chest of the shirt, looking like he was coming off the field of a game where he ran the winning touchdown. And the bleachers are shaking as “Jump Around” plays along with the feet of the crowd.
The stories I’d imagine about my dad were the best part of the sweatshirt. A beer spilling onto the chest at a football game. A late night in Memorial Library, reading through scribbled notes before finals. Pulling into the driveway at 1610 Wyman to see his family for Christmas. Or maybe even meeting my mother in graduate school. I wonder about the parts of him that shirt had seen which I myself will never experience, except through imagination. These are thoughts that come to me often, about what things were like for my parents when they were my age. It’s easy to forget that they too are living life for the first time. It’s funny how buying a bookstore sweatshirt can plant seeds of joy and imagination like that.
I run down the stairs in my socks, a cartoon character sliding. I swing open the back door and slam my pointer into the garage button. Click. Crank, screech, thump, halt. The door opens, and I run barefoot around the curve of our driveway, like a track star. My arms wrap around his waist, thickened by the fisherman’s fabric. My head burrows in his chest and I’m weakened by embrace. The feel of my father’s arms around my back is something I’ll never get over. It’s the thing that’ll put me over the edge, falling into tears anytime I say goodbye these days. Who knew I’d miss the shaggy carpet, and the stringy Christmas lights, and that thick old sweatshirt.
Is there ever a time to give away an object you love dearly? Even something like an old sweatshirt? I used to think it’s maybe when your wife says, “I can’t believe you hold onto that old thing” or when the stains override the appearance. Or maybe its when the tactility loses strength and the threads are pilling and peeling. But now I think I’m not so sure the right answer to that question. Maybe there’s also a point where you’ve worn the heck out of something, so much that you’re not sure you can use it no more, but it’s become impossible to not see yourself in that thing. It’s the moment you realize it’s been with you through it all, that you notice this strange almost unconditional love you’ve got for it. I’m not sure. Maybe there are some things to hold onto, even when we feel like letting go.
January 2025