It’s a little chillier than usual in my bedroom. I’ve been away for a couple days and I wonder if my mom turned the heat down. On Christmas Eve, in Vermont, she opened the kitchen window to cool off – my sister and I, in our sweaters and fuzzy socks convulsing from the cold, rolled our eyes as she wondered why the food she had just taken out of the oven and placed under the window was no longer warm.
I perk up, feeling the crookedness of my quickly forming smile. A genuine smile, since usually I try to control the downward turn of the left side of my mouth. I remember you gave me a sweatshirt to bring home with me. A soft one. One you wore while I was there. Not some musty, back of the closet, lifeless, “I got this on vacation and haven't worn it since” sweatshirt. I unzip my bag and pull it out. I have no interest in putting it on despite its function of keeping a cold person warm. If I wear it the smell of you will fade away while mine gets absorbed. It smells like your deodorant and faintly of the tacos we cooked.