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2010-09-14 - 4:53 p.m.

I found a sweater last night that doesn't belong to me. It's white, and is a cardigan, and I'd forgotten all about it until I found it last night, under my bed, in an old green duffel bag that I'd once used to carry around soccer shoes and shinpads. There's stuff at the bottom of the bag that used to be mud but is now so dried and worked over that it's turned to dust that shines when the light hits it right, like mica, or fool's gold. I didn't mean to forget about the sweater, but I did. I didn't mean to treat that sweater with disrespect, but I did.

As soon as I found it, though, I remembered right away who it belonged to, how it got left in my place from two places ago. I smelled it but there's nobody's smell on it but mine now. It smells like soccer shoes and dust, like an attic, like boxes piled up over in the corner, like anything that's been tucked away for maybe too long.

Here's what I thought of after I'd smelled that sweater: what if this sweater didn't mean anything much at all to the person who left it in my room? What if it was a borrowed sweater? What if it was the warmest clean sweater around that night? What if it never fit right and what if it was worn that night because it could be gotten dirty in that big, dirty place where I used to live? What if, for that other person, that sweater was always just a dusty box in the corner? What if it never really smelled like anything other than soccer shoes?

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