My husband shakes his head at me when he folds our laundry and finds it has survived one more trip through the washer and dryer. (Yes, Joey does the laundry.) He puts his fingers or his whole hand through one of the holes near the neck or under the arm and asks why I still have this old shirt.
Men are so silly. It was the first thing he gave me (perhaps I took it as girl friends are apt to do). The shoulder seams, still intact, remind me of the young man who strode up to the porch of my rent house in Stillwater with broad shoulders and a charming smile and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. Before I knew it, we had left the city limits and were in spitting distance of I-35. Incredulous, I asked where we going. Joey answered that we were on a donut run. Missing the point, I responded with something about there being a Winchell’s on 6th Street. He said those weren’t real donuts. Within an hour, we were pulling into a Dunkin Donuts on Sunnylane Drive in Del City for an old fashioned donut. On the way home he defended his decision but confessed that a donut run was just an excuse to be with just me for over two hours.
I cannot see my gray champion OSU football t-shirt without remembering that donut run and the beginning of a promise we made to each other. I am always seeing metaphors. The shirt remains just as soft as the first day I wore it, just as light. There are small holes near the neck and larger holes under one arm but the integrity of the shirt is still intact. None of us, the shirt, my Joey, or me are the same as we were - but we still belong to each other and that is one good thing.