For as long as I can remember I have stolen my dad’s clothes. When I was little I wore his biggest and softest shirts as nightgowns. My favorites ended up being permanently mine that I would let him wear… maybe. We got into several joke arguments where I would complain that he was wearing my sweatshirt or my comfy shirt. I wore these clothes until they were so ripped and threadbare my mom had to point out I was verging on a massive wardrobe malfunction. My favorite was a very very very soft all cotton crimson tee-shirt from France that my aunt had given dad as a gift. I wore it for ten or more years before the holes were so gaping it was more scarf than shirt. I put the green Scotland shirt and the red viking shirt into a quilt so keep always, but France was too far gone.

Now I wear clothes he wore when he was sick. A pair of sweatpants and an oversized red fleece sweater. One of the most painful memories from his slow passing was sorting through his clothing with him in bed and trying to decided between my parents and myself what clothes should go where. I wanted him to keep his snow boots for the winter. I wanted him to keep his heavy coat for the first snow. I wanted material expectations that he was going to rally and make it to Christmas. Several times we were faced with harsh realities that he was not going to get better. A year later I still don’t believe that it is real a great deal of time. This was just some sick dream.

When I was tiny, toddler level, barely a memory, he would pick me up and zip me inside his jacket so he could carry me and I could be warm. Now I wear his sweaters and know this is the closest I get to hugging him again.