His favorite shirt
At last everyone was gone. It had been an almost summer-like day. Folks had walked up through the woods in light sweaters and shirt sleeves. Afterwards they had sat on the deck and out in the yard to eat.
But now they were gone. The house was quiet for the first time in a week and I was alone. Forever alone.
The evening chill had me reaching for something warm. There on the hook just inside the door hung his favorite shirt. I held it to my face and breathed in the familiar scent. I shrugged into the warm green plaid flannel and hugged it to my shivering body.
For over a year I wore it on chilly mornings and cool evenings. Never washing it. Now twelve long years later the shirt, quite ragged and worn, still hangs on the hook by the door waiting to hug me on chilly mornings and cool long evenings.
My heart sang with joy when on a chilly morning I looked out to see our great granddaughter, Grace, snuggled up in Papa Great’s shirt. I hope he saw it too.