My current favorite sweatshirt has a John Deer tractor on it. It’s old. It was my grandpa’s–it has his name JAMES DAVISON in black permanent marker on the inside collar. He collected tractors. I used to wear this sweater out to look at the stars when I still lived in Arkansas. It was in much better shape then. I wore it on the drive North. Loaded the Uhaul in this shirt. It quickly and appropriately became my unironic farm shirt. I’d wear it proudly to Farm n Barn with my crisp Carhartt utility pants. I’d clean the house with music loud. I butchered chickens in this shirt. It’s still stained from it. I buried Jasper and built the tiny house. Hauled chicken coop garbage to the dump. This shirt has seen it all. I can’t count the holes or the marks. Wearing this nasty rag of a shirt makes me feel pride and grief, power and growth. She’s coming apart at every seam, but for good use. This shirt to me is holy. It’s sacred. Its every thread carries memory. Carries meaning.
I saw a shooting star tonight and it reminded me of the days when I and this sweater were softer and cleaner. Without the stains and tears of the last two years. Who knew we’d find ourself here? I like to think the stars did.