Mom's Sweatshirt

My mom’s black sweatshirt, thin, pilled and worn soft from years of use, hangs in my closet. Occasionally, I’ll grab it and put it on. I run my fingers along the seams, sometimes pulling a loose thread. Whenever I wear that sweatshirt, I think of her.

I remember her wearing it. On walks as she pushed my son Cal in a stroller. Under an apron as she cooked frittatas for dinner. Over her pajamas in those last months when she wore pajamas every day.

Sometimes the sweatshirt is like a gateway back to her. As if memories were stitched into the fabric. Random recollections, plucked from the corners of my life. Christmas mornings. Trips to the zoo. Cheers from the bleachers during my swim meets. Teary phone calls home during college. Dancing in the center of the circle at my brother’s wedding. Rocking with her newborn grandson next to my hospital bed. Bittersweet moments in the days leading up to hospice.

There’s something about that sweatshirt. When I wear it, it makes me feel close to her. As if she’s right there, holding me a big hug.

I’ve worn that sweatshirt a lot this week, because I’ve launched my book into the world. And so much of my story depends on her story. In many ways, it’s our story.

I hope I’ve honored her. I hope she’s smiling.

I’d so love to be able to hand my mom the book, see her turn the pages, and talk with her about what she thinks of it.

But if I could do that, it would be a very different book. And I would probably be a very different person.

Loss refines us. It strips us down and builds us anew. It’s not voluntary, but it’s inevitable. It’s painful, but it’s also profound.

We come out on the other side. Sometimes with scars. Always with opened eyes.

My memoir, Piece by Piece: A Life Remembered through Things Lost, is available now wherever you love to buy books or audiobooks. Order online here