Old sweaters and old friends

My people are like well-loved clothes that although too old

are impossible to part with

I hoard a few, in the dark end of my wardrobe

covered in mothballs and memory

but always within reach.

Some with their frayed edges and tears

are carefully patched up, still a bit fragile

Temporarily mended problems, hastily sewn gaps.

But the self-awareness that this will last

only if we’re careful

Turns everything into a performance.

Then there are others that I must force myself to fit into

because time has changed me for better or worse

we no longer settle as snug as we once did

but then again, there are a few miracles

And some people

like old sweaters just get comfier with time.