Hazy Shades of Me

As I lift it out of the box, the soft material all but slips through my fingers. It’s creamy consistency is rich.

Lush.

My happy place.

“I’ll treasure it always!” I squeal as I hold it up to my face, inhaling the fresh ‘out of the shop’ smell.

And I wore it with everything. Magically, it seemed to suit any ensemble I put together. It was always just the right fit and went with me everywhere, a loyal accompaniment.

But as time went on, I took advantage of it. Used it as a cushion on hard seats. Let the cat curl up on it during lazy afternoon naps. Slept in it on cold nights and wrapped it ‘round me while sitting on salty sand. Lazing in front of fiery flames.

And the smells and smudges of a life well-worn began to take their toll. It now mimicked a rag doll, crumpled in the corner. Its depressed drapery defeated. Neck soiled, cuffs frayed.

Now, when I lift it to my face, as I had so long ago, I inhale abuse, neglect. The fresh smell of new, now replaced with the sad, sour scent of a sorrowful soul.

My mind races; I could wash it. Fix it. I could stitch the cuffs and scrub the neck.

But the truth is, I know it’s no use.

When something is so precious, so delicate, it warrants continuous, consistent respect. A little attention, now and then, when you can find the time, won’t keep it undamaged or unscathed.

It’s too late. It’s fallen away. Irreparable. And I am left exposed.