On cold mornings, where a final alarm successfully wakes me within 10 minutes of an online lecture, I reach for the same black hoodie. Faded to near-gray from countless wash cycles, threads coming undone at the sleeves, oftentimes found in a pile near the bed or tossed over a chair, I reach for this sweater as I'd reach for a drink of water in the desert. Near copies of the same style, color and material hang in my closet, or sit folded in a dresser, untouched until I recall their existence. 

My fingers pick absentmindedly at the pilling that develops near the base of my sleeve, flicking the small clumps of fiber and watching them float to the ground, like leaves from a tree. On even colder mornings, I tuck bare knees and arms against my chest, curling into a ball underneath the cover of stitched fabric and laundry smell. Standing upright, the sweater hangs off of my shoulders and spills over my arms, like a child playing dress up. As it turns out, this article of clothing that I wear nearly every day of my life, doesn't actually belong to me. 

The original appeal of this hoodie wasn't the material, the fit, or the design on the front and back, but the smell of my husband ingrained into the fabric. Oaky with a hint of sweetness, masked by fabric softener or men's deodorant, all the same I never wanted the smell to fade. 

In the beginning, after anxious, hour-long drives on icy roads, he'd greet with a warm hug and a smile. Burying my face into this sweater, something I've grown accustomed to do years later, I'd exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I would gladly drive for days and nights to be with him, dreading the moment I'd have to return home and be without him for another week. 

Now, on dreary mornings where he leaves for work much earlier than I wake, I dig through the laundry basket with half-open eyes. On quick runs to the grocery store, I scan the living room for black fabric. Before bed, I crawl into the hood and sleeves with the sincerity of a cub leaning against mom for warmth. Long gone are the days of traveling weekly to see him, grateful to share a home with my best friend, and share a wardrobe as well! 

Once treated with care and respect, the sleeves of this sweater are now a dish towel. Wiping away frost on my windshield in sub-zero temperatures, absorbing splashes of soapy water as I scrub large pots and pans, withstanding condiment spills from particularly messy junk food on late Friday nights. The material is near perfect for dabbing away condensation on a frosty glass, or stray tears in a low moment. 

A run in the washing machine may scrub away stains and dirt, but the soft cotton inside has sustained countless cycles. The strings that once tightened and loosened the hood are now long removed and thrown in a drawer somewhere, leaving empty holes around the collar. I recall often chewing absentmindedly on the aglets of the string, or pulling them back and forth as a nervous tick. Now all I can do is pull apart loose threads, or pick the pilling one by one, as if another run in the washer won't bring them back again. 

On long-distance trips, my airport clothing of choice never changes. I pull the hood over my headphones, bury my hands into the single pocket, and close my eyes as the plane's low rumble shakes me with each breath. Under the cover of cold hands, nails dig into my palms as I steady my fight against gravity. Once I open my eyes, I count on the security of my hoodie to hold me until I reach the ground again. 

The word "unkempt" comes to mind when I'm in public. I think of the stray threads, the stained sleeves, the holes near the waistband. Just as simply I could pluck a similar black hoodie from my wardrobe, one far less worn and just as comfortable, but I never do. I thoughtlessly grab the same article of clothing whenever given the opportunity. I grab it from the laundry basket. I swipe it off the chair. I roll sleeves in hot weather, and tuck numb fingers into pockets in the cold. 

One day, I will take off this sweater and never put it back on again. It'll get misplaced in an unfamiliar setting, or folded neatly into a box of old clothing. For now, it will envelop me in its warmth like the day I first tried it on; and I will be grateful from now until then.

                                                                  
GALA MACKIE-PEREZ is an undeclared freshman. She was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. Gala recently married a loving husband, and is enjoying each day as it comes.