Your daughter comes over for dinner one night, fresh from a run. It’s cool on the deck so you lend her a sweatshirt, something old. You don’t remember when or how you came to have it. When she leaves, she hangs it from the back of a kitchen chair. You toss it in the laundry.
A few days later, folding clothes fresh from the dryer, you pick the sweatshirt out of the pile. Some trace of your daughter billows from the fleece. The garment floods you with memory and meaning. It will never be the same.