Talk About Doing A Hard Thing

Today=Historical.

Here's why.
I finally threw away the white sweater, the one Paul brought to me from Korea 23 years ago. The one I have worn around the house nearly every day of every winter for those 23 years, because it kept me warm. (Duh.) The one some of my children grew sick of seeing many years ago and would occasionally mention that it didn't look so good. Others, I think, stopped noticing it. You know, like, it was like my skin.

The one I painted in, laundered with a piece of gum in the pocket--hence, gum on it. The one I often apologized for when folks came to the door and saw me in it, and I think some had a hard time understanding how it could be my favorite sweater. The one that over the last few years has developed holes, small at first, but they got bigger, and last night I realized that I was cold in the sweater because so much of it was no longer there.

The one I have thrown away five other times and then resurrected. Like last year.

But today there is no resurrecting. It's in a bag with other garbage, tied securely, at the bottom of the garbage can in the garage. I couldn't get it if I wanted to. I don't think.

I called Paul and told him, like a confession, I guess. He seemed only slightly moved. I thought to call Lola, but it was too early in the day for Nevada people. So she may never know.

I called Alyce and told her. She said, "What are you going to do now, Mom?" Which is, of course, the very question I'm asking myself.