It doesn’t take much, these days, to bring up a memory. My head seems more filled with the past than with current events. I spent a dreary cold, damp and rainy afternoon on the sofa, recently. That was enough.
I wore the sweatpants that have been a part of my wardrobe for the last twenty years. I “inherited” them from an old boyfriend, who left them at my house. First, they were a comfortable, warm layer to throw on for running errands or taking a walk. Eventually, I wore them in the studio. I’m a messy artist; I wipe my hands on my clothes. Soon, they were fit for nothing else. Now, they are so crusted with glue, acrylic paint and polymer medium, they could probably stand on their own. Their colorful surface could tell many stories.
As a top layer, I put on my baggy pink sweatshirt. I bought it, used, a couple years ago while treasure-hunting in re-sale shops with my sister, Brenda. Two dollars. It has too many spots and stains to ever be worn in public anymore, but it’s a comfy choice when I’m at home.
Over all, because I felt chilled with the dampness, I wore my bathrobe. It is fleece, gray and dingy white, with an all over pattern of sheep . My mother bought it for me many Christmases ago because it reminded her of one I’d had when I was sixteen. First, I didn’t really think it was my style. Fleece? Sheep? I thought I would have preferred terry cloth, or chenille. I’ve grown to appreciate it, though, over the years. Now that my mom is no longer with us, I treasure it as a gift from her, along with the thoughtfulness she put into it.
One ring on my finger. That, I bought on a whim several years ago while browsing at Livingstone Studio. I’m not much of a jewelry person, but every now and then, something catches my eye. My sister, Robin, wears rings on almost every finger. It is a wonderful look for her, and one I thought of borrowing. I don’t have a lifestyle that suits rings, though. I don’t think to take them off, and my hands are too often in paint or clay, detergent or other corrosive substance. This ring has hung in there with me, though. It doesn’t turn my finger green, and it has just a bit of sparkle, that I like. It draws my eyes, sometimes, to my hand. The older I get, the more my hands remind me of my mother’s hands, and that’s always a good feeling.
One book, a crocheted afghan, and two dogs completed the little vignette. It was a good afternoon.