Do you have that thing, the one that wraps tight around your heart, so worn out with love and no specific memory but smells and feels just like home when you hold it close?
It started with an old paint-splattered Georgetown Bulldogs sweatshirt I discovered in my dad's closet when I was in junior high. Later, when I was living in Austin, I found this Georgetown U shirt at a thrift shop for ten cents. For a nascent Houston native just navigating her way in a world that had opened up so expansively before her, it suddenly felt like a very small place...I had to buy the shirt. It should be noted that no one in my family ever has or will go to Georgetown, but these pieces are a comfyday staple of mine for no apparent reason. The fact of them takes me to a place that feels like home. Not a building, not a collection of people related by blood, not a reminiscent series of events scattered on a timeline by association--but an idea of safety, of ease, of unrivaled solace.
Life can be funny like that, sometimes.
The same way that my car was saved when the flood came because my best friend just happened to be in town and looked out his kitchen window in time to see my baby drowning. It only took 8 towels and an hour with the wetvac to remove the five inches of water that seeped into the car, but it still runs just fine, and that's all I can ask for. Maybe it's because I was wearing the Bulldogs sweatshirt in the downpour, completely fascinated by the slap and roar of cold, muddy water against my calves.
Or maybe not.
Either way, it's been a gray, weepy weekend. Lots of wringing hands and wringing out and ripped floorboards and fans to dry dry dry the tears the sky left behind.