campus

short pen scratch about a cashmere sweater

The winter lays over me and makes me unwilling. When I wake up in the morning, I drag my feet on the floor. I pull on a blue sweater, belonging to someone I once knew.

It wasn’t like him to know what cashmere was. It must’ve been some accident. Maybe he felt for it in the bins and recognized its quality without knowing what it was. So soft.

I think he wore a women’s perfume, but it suited him all the same. If I moved my arm in a particular way, or put my nose to the cuff, the remnants of that scent was still there. Strong tea, and flowers.

I was one cigarette away from smoking away any evidence of his existence. Someday the sweater will cease to be his and smell only of tobacco. But I think when I wear it, I will still think of him, the long-haired Philosophy student. He’s like the others. I only run into him in the things left behind.

In the evening, I put the sweater somewhere where I cannot grab it, hap-hazardly, tired and dazed. It is not good to summon ghosts without intention.

I put it in the back of the closet. I know full well the next time I see it will be a cold discovery - when I am spring cleaning, looking for the silk dress I wear to weddings, my fingers will touch that fine cashmere. It will all come back to me. And if I am lucky the perfume will not have faded. And I will get to see him one last time before he is truly dead to me.

I can still picture you walking across campus. I try to forget about it.