Cross-legged on her bedroom floor, she was surrounded by colours. Blue, red, grey, white. Shades of her personality, all reflected in these pieces of variously textured cloth that she had procured over the years. Scanning, analysing, judging and discarding, this was a task she had long put off, but doomsday was finally here.
She tugged at the yellow silk that was gasping for air from underneath a heavy pile of garments. Distaste contorted her face as a lemon coloured smock surfaced. Her decision was quick and her hands even quicker to banish the item to the donation box. That specific item had lost its value courtesy of an unforgiving dynamic fashion industry, and had no place in her new life. Its fate had been sealed the day it was dyed that volatile yellow.
After monotonous hours of rummaging, procrastinating and exiling, she was left with a final pile of shirts. They had somehow managed to remain colour coded amongst all the chaos, and had a dark demeanour to them. She reached out for one with a familiar texture and the moment her calloused hand brushed its material, she was washed away by a wave of memories. It was that black t-shirt.
Impromptu sports games, carefully planned naps, rash drives in search of a pharmacy. The most obscure, and apparently random memories shouted at her. It was the call of an old comrade.
She wrestled it free from the pile and innately sniffed it. The subtle fragrance of flowers lingered, parodying an aura. It had been washed, once upon a time, but not worn since; that black t-shirt that had been lost. Lost but not forgotten, because it still carried the memories of a bright young girl, an angsty teenager, who had matured into a robust woman. She immediately ripped off her branded but “light-wear” shirt, as she called it, and replaced it with the faded black v-neck. It still fit her like a glove. She would never admit that she had discarded the t-shirt because it had become too loose on her- worn out. She most certainly did not want to admit, that the fact that she fit in it now, meant that she had ‘grown’ into it.
Her memories were violently flung at her. The fitting had once complemented her like no other had before, setting her off on a journey with a newfound realisation of how good fitting could do wonders for you in a patriarchal society. She remembered that she had had her first kiss in that t-shirt but had also broken down for the first time over a boy. She had worn it to her first non-uniform day at high-school, and the first day after graduation. Rain had soddened that black t-shirt in the past but so had her tears. It had survived the test of time and looking at it now, it also brought her an odd sense of comfort. If nothing could break this piece of cloth, if it had been through it all, and come out fine, what was stopping her.
She smoothly replaced the t-shirt with her original shirt and neatly folded it. Clasping at it hard, one last time, and ignoring all her sensitivities, she tucked it away in the charity box. She hoped it would bring someone the same full life it had given her. That black t-shirt, that miracle t-shirt.