The Life of Being Worn
By: Molly Buckles
My biggest dream as a piece of clothing is to be the owner's favorite. Every time the closet’s light is turned on, or the drawer is slid open, I make sure I am on my best behavior and sit up straight. After many days in the closet, I soon realized that there are only certain moods in which I am picked. On Sundays and Mondays, the bottom shelf of the closet is used the most. The bottom shelf is primarily oversized t-shirts, bulky sweatpants, and crew necks. My friends on the top shelf are always appalled by the decisions made by the owner. The jeans gain a wrinkle, the blouses add a crease, and the sweaters, like me, shed a tear, causing the fabric to pill. Those are not the worst days, though. The worst days are when I am picked, and I am paired with a pair of pants I know won’t complement my appearance. I close my eyes tightly and hope that I won’t be blamed for this stupid mistake. I blink my eyes open as my owner looks in the mirror. It was horrendous as I knew it would be. This next part is the worst. I am ripped off the warm body and thrown aside. Right on the carpet, collecting dirt and dog hair. In a rushed attempt, I am tossed back in the closet. Unfolded, unwashed, and unappreciated. As the closet door closes, I look at the sweatshirt that was worn last week sitting on the body that I should be sitting on. It looks no different, and in fact, it looks worse.
I am green. A green that many think of when they think of the rolling hills of Vermont. A green symbolizing the moss painted all over the trees. A green that makes people want to curl up with a cup of tea by the fire. I know I would be worn more if I lived in a place that was constantly cold. I know I would be worn more if I were slightly bigger and fit better. But here I lay, thrown over the basket of socks and directly under the dresses. I will not be noticed for another couple of weeks.
a green foggy morning on the east coast
A thing that keeps me entertained during these long, dark days in the closet is the memories of when I was once worn. I remember the day I was put on the hanger, the only thing differentiating me from the others was my size. I readjusted my stance, making sure I was the best looking out of the others on the rack. I remember being put on the warm skin for the first time. I remember the way I fit the body of my human and the excitement she felt when wearing me. The first day I was worn, I went to a campfire. I had never felt heat the way I did that night. It was hot, and it singed the small fuzz on my sleeves. I did not care, as long as I was keeping my owner warm and happy, I felt happy too. That night I sat on the back of a chair. As the night started to quiet, I relaxed my fabric and smelled the remnant of the smoke in my thoughts and on my stitches.
I am rudely awakened from my memories when I hear the sound of metal on metal. Above me, a dress is being moved around in the closet. The screech of the hanger against the metal rack is deafening. My owner is back, looking for yet another outfit that doesn’t include me.
At last, I am picked up. She raises me to her chest, and I smell her perfume. The smell that I am familiar with, the smell that comforts me. She places me in the hamper, and even though I am next to the stinky socks and wet underarm shirts, I am happy. I am living off of our last confrontation and enjoying the fact that I am about to be washed. As I am taken down the stairs and placed in the wash, I am at peace. The water fills, and I start to spin. All of my bad memories are washed away, and I ponder how I can be better for my owner. I long for the moments that once were, but I am happy with the moments I have now.