I Have A Tan Hoodie I Got A Few Years Ago, From My Mother.

I have a tan hoodie i got a few years ago, from my mother.

Since i got it, its been my favorite.

Its thin, and torn but its comforting. Theres holes at the end of my sleeves i can stick my thumbs through.

On a warm summer in British Columbia, me and my friends take a bus downtown. Pausing at one of the stops to smoke and a bit of hot ash falls onto my hoodie, burning a small hole. It doesnt bother me.

Painting on a wall late at night, its cold and i can barely feel my fingers against the nozzle of the can. When i bring my arm down, my sleeve brushes against the wet paint and leaves a permanent stain. It doesnt bother me.

As the hoodie grows more worn the ends of the sleeve cuffs wear out, theres a hole that bores through them from where i put out a joint. At some parts the sleeves thin out, nearing another hole if it dare gets caught on anything. It doesnt bother me.

A late September i meet my best friend through his brother, we find and break into an abandoned house that still has belongings. He decides to spray the motion lights with liquid rubber. As i walk under it, it drips onto the pocket of my hoodie. It doesnt bother me.

The inside of the hood is stained purple from me sleeping with damp hair, even if it fades every time i wash it, it never fails to reappear after a shower. It doesnt bother me.

I get knocked off my feet in a friendly fight, the back of my hoodie gets caught on a rock and tears. But my friend is standing above me holding his hand out to help me up. I sew a patch over the hole later, but he doesnt know that. He apologies with a drink. It doesnt bother me.

I no longer wear this hoodie out, for it is worn and thin and very lovingly mended. I still see it as a part of me, the memories it holds are dear to me.