Nothing to do with travel or Latin America. This one took place in Boston, but it’s a lovely (if melancholy) story no less. And I always thought a good memorial was well deserved.
You were eggplant purple, very wet, and a little dirty. The pavement was gritty too, and I hardly even noticed you.
A single wash and dry later, and we were fast friends.
Our relationship was a happy and fulfilling one. You made me look dressed up when I needed to be fancy, but we also spent a lot of time with Sweatshirts and Sweatpants too. I was happy because you were warm and had a subtle textured flowery pattern, and I liked to think you were happy because I snuggled you close and washed you occasionally.
But all good things must come to an end, and this time it was my fault.
If it weren’t for my overwhelming sadness, it might seem kind of appropriate, albeit rather melancholy. The way I stuffed you into my jacket sleeve (I guess I always sort of took you for granted), and took off my jacket (it was so hot in that bar). The way I didn’t give you a second thought, too distracted by the beautiful people and the sloshing drinks, until it came time to leave.
The way I reached for you, and you weren’t there.
I was surrounded by people—a fog of warm bodies standing, dancing, talking, laughing, flirting, blurring into one—but without your cottony/silky touch (I never did check to see what you were made of), I felt utterly alone.
Years from now, I know I’ll think of you from time to time. It hurts (and it always will) to think of you warming someone else’s neck, but somehow I feel strangely at peace. Through the hurt and the sadness, I can only hope that whoever found you on that bar floor—soaked in beer, trampled by the heels of drunk biddies, as vulnerable as the day I found you behind the library—can love you as much as I did.
Finders keepers, purple scarf. I guess you were never really mine.