I was sitting on the plush carpet in my mother’s bedroom, and the room was filled with the weight of her presence. I was sitting cross-legged. Her sweater, which was scented with lavender, was draped across my lap, and the comforting aroma of its familiar scent was a bittersweet one. When I looked down at her patched-up sweatpants, which were a symbol of her unwavering commitment to pragmatism, I was taken aback by the laughter that could be heard bubbling through my tears.
Neil made his appearance in the doorway in a stealthy manner, his movements appearing as though they were not intended to disrupt the delicate silence. While he was kneeling next to me, he muttered, “Laura, love.” His hand was a reassuring weight for me to carry on my shoulder. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”
I responded, “I know,” while blotting my eyes with a tissue. It’s just that… everything in this place makes me think of her. Right down to these sweatpants. There were a hundred different ways in which she could have replaced them, but she never let go of them.
With a grin on his face, Neil examined the many patches. As he pondered, “They’re like a badge of honor,” he said. On the other hand, your mother had money; why do you keep these?