Mom thrusts it into my arms out of a dust-covered storage bin. A smile graces her face as her fingers run over the embroidered letters: OLE MISS. That wasn’t an expression I saw on Mom’s face often. I want to reach out for her hand; hold it like I always do. My fingers twitch, holding back the urge.
“I bought this sweatshirt after I graduated.” The worn-out fabric and Mom’s comment tell me that the sweatshirt is much older than I am. I’m nearly eleven now.
“You can have it; if you want it.” I can tell this is a big deal to Mom, she didn’t just give out her sweatshirts to anyone, especially one that gave her a face like that. It means I’m important. She trusts me with it. The thought makes my insides fuzzy with pride.
The hoodie slides down my shoulders and settles on my body. It swallows me like an ill-fitted dress. She moves on.
