My oldest piece of clothing

You know, the one—everybody has that piece of clothing that they just can't seem to get rid of, no matter how worn it gets. For others, it's a trusty pair of jeans or a broken-in, old jacket. For me, it's this shirt. To anyone else, it’s practically invisible, the kind of thing you’d push aside in a drawer without a second glance. But for me, its faded fabric is like a personal map, each thin spot and faint stain marking a moment in time.

I stumbled upon it on a complete whim in 2014. I had strolled into a crowded roadside bazaar, not necessarily to buy anything but to get the noises and the atmosphere. My eye landed on a simple stack of gray tees. Nothing remarkable. I picked one up, touched it, and was surprised at how silky it was. It was cheap, too—the type of impulse buy you don't even think about afterward. I stuck it in my purse and continued with my day, no clue that I'd just acquired a future friend.

This shirt is my unobtrusive companion for so long. I clearly remember the first time I traveled by myself to a different city, a multitude of nerves struggling to decipher the train station and find my hostel. I wore this shirt because it was familiar, and amidst all that sea of unfamiliar faces and signs, its softness was small but comforting anchor. It gave me the feeling of having a little bit of home around me when I was so far from it.

And then there was when my friends dragged me into a impromptu football game. I'd worn jeans and this same top—not kit issue. I still managed to play though, throwing tackles on the dirt-stained pitch.

The top was in pieces by the end of the whistle: soggy with sweat, smeared with dirt, and stretched tightly in strange places. We all tumbled over laughing, and someone joked that my "lucky shirt" was awarded the Man of the Match for surviving me. It's a silly memory, but it is sewn into the fabric as surely as the stitches themselves.

I sometimes catch myself wondering what this old brute would say if it had a voice. I imagine it would have a low, wise voice. It might state something along the lines of, "I remember that fantastic presentation that you sweated out. I've noticed those tears that you were trying to hold back after a stressful telephone conversation.

I've stored your Sundays of idleness, your extended talk with friends, and all the dull days in between. I'm a bit worn down myself, but, hey, so are we all, right?" And that's the point, see. That's why it still exists, years later than trendier tops that have come and gone. I have lots of newer, nicer ones in my closet. But when I'm sorting through clothes to give away, my hand hesitates over this grey t-shirt and I just. can't.

Giving it up would be like discarding a picture album. The color has faded to a memory of grey, the collar has lost the fight and hangs limp, and it's definitely had better days. But to put it on is like stepping into a familiar story. It's a tangible connection to who I once was and a reminder of the journey to where I stand now.

In the end, what we hold dearest are never the brightest nor the most expensive. They're the ones who've shared a life with us. This old t-shirt is more than cotton; it's a keeper of my memories. And as long as it lasts, I'll keep it around—because some things, no matter how old, are simply irreplaceable.

I invite @chant @okere-blessing @kouba01

@mydoctor