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White Shirts

Today was white shirt day. Not just any ordinary white shirt day but The White Shirt, the one which is related to Pig Pen in the comic strips; the one that is the first shirt my daughter ever bought for me, the one that has been lovingly de-stained every single week for year after year after year...... and yet again today, its true nature called to it. Never mind how thread bare it is, and I can now a days only wear it around the house, its sentimental value jumps and leaps with every washing. I was presented with this shirt when my daughter got her first job in college. I figure she must have saved for nearly 6 months on what she was making to be able to buy this branded polo shirt with her college name on it. At the time, I was flattered, never knowing how with each wearing of it, the preciousness of it would increase. I wore it proudly as a dad should the day she presented it to me and took me to meet her boyfriend. We both ordered spaghetti and both dropped spaghetti sauce on our shirts at the same moment in the same spot! Amid the embarrassed tears of my daughter, Valerie, we jokingly told her it was a sign she was meant to marry Chris. Both Fate and the shirt listened well... I took it back and scrubbed it and scrubbed it and finally when I got home I bleached it. But after that night, the shirt knew its proper place in the universe. Everywhere I went with it, ... it gathered new stains. It never seemed to matter how clean it would be coming out of the dryer, but the moment I put it over my head, the signal for new stains was given, and they gravitated towards the shirt like ducks to a pond. Today was certainly no exception! First before I got within 20 paces of the coffee pot, there were 3 new coffee stains. Shortly there after as I walked back into the kitchen raw egg attached itself to the shirt, and dirt near the window plants trembled in anticipation. I am of course quite used to this and it does not bother me till the end of the day. Not properly trained dirt from plants at the store adhered to it, left over oriental food from 3 days ago stained the lower abdomen when the fridge door suddenly flew open and the stain shot out. Avocado missed the apron and found the shirt as have fresh tomatoes today. This was after all a very slow relaxing day for both the shirt and for me. Nor can it be thrown away, for each and every attempt guarantees it will be returned cleaned and pressed, ready for a new adventure, a new set of stains to increase both its memory and its worth. Each stain a memory being added to the core of the shirt, and hidden by bleach or not, they live there, to bring back days of adventures when life went on between emotional pains. If this were not so, Chris would never have found it my luggage. He pulled it out to show Valerie, and they could not believe I still have the shirt, edges worn off, threads hanging loose, insignia tight as a drum, and a spaghetti stain that will never come out. Chris looked at it and asked if that was the stain from the night so many years ago. And my daughter sniffled holding her husband's hand. So many years ago when I first met Chris, we shared a stain together, and taught my White Shirt how to remember. Neither of us is going anywhere. We have new adventures awaiting us tomorrow.
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