It's really cold here tonight, below 10 degrees. You're missing a cold winter, Dad. I just came home, happy to be in from the frigid wind outside, and opened my closet to look for the coziest thing I could find to put on. I grabbed my navy blue hooded sweatshirt with the Sav Mor Mechanical logo emblazoned on the front and back. The passion you had for t-shirts, I have for hooded sweatshirts. I have at least 15 of them. But this one is the oldest and the most treasured.
When I was a sophomore in High School, I sort of co-opted a Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue zip-up hoodie from you. It was about 25 times too large for me, but I loved it and wore it constantly. At some point in the years that followed, you presented me with the one I am wearing right now, my very own Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue hoodie. No one else in the world would love these ugly sweatshirts as much as we do, would cherish a free and logo clad hoodie in quite the same way.
Walking into the bathroom just now, I caught sight of the Sav Mor logo in the mirror and flashed back to sitting in the hospital on that Wednesday. The Wednesday after the Friday when you were admitted to the hospital, the Wednesday when you had the surgery and the biopsy that would finally be the answer to whether or not you had cancer. Up until that point, I had been operating with a sort of absurd and unrelenting optimism. I really, truly believed that you were going to be just fine.
And sitting there in the waiting room with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak to us, trying to tune out the white noise from the TV's above my head, my eyes landed on a brass plaque on the wall that said Sav Mor Mechanical Co. It was the only time I'd ever seen the logo anywhere aside from on our matching blue sweatshirts, and it really caught me by surprise. Sav Mor must have been a hospital donor or something. Either way, I took it for a good sign. I thought it meant that everything was going to be just fine. I'd forgotten about that until just now.
A thousand times a day, I think of you. A thousand and one.
xx
a
When I was a sophomore in High School, I sort of co-opted a Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue zip-up hoodie from you. It was about 25 times too large for me, but I loved it and wore it constantly. At some point in the years that followed, you presented me with the one I am wearing right now, my very own Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue hoodie. No one else in the world would love these ugly sweatshirts as much as we do, would cherish a free and logo clad hoodie in quite the same way.
Walking into the bathroom just now, I caught sight of the Sav Mor logo in the mirror and flashed back to sitting in the hospital on that Wednesday. The Wednesday after the Friday when you were admitted to the hospital, the Wednesday when you had the surgery and the biopsy that would finally be the answer to whether or not you had cancer. Up until that point, I had been operating with a sort of absurd and unrelenting optimism. I really, truly believed that you were going to be just fine.
And sitting there in the waiting room with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak to us, trying to tune out the white noise from the TV's above my head, my eyes landed on a brass plaque on the wall that said Sav Mor Mechanical Co. It was the only time I'd ever seen the logo anywhere aside from on our matching blue sweatshirts, and it really caught me by surprise. Sav Mor must have been a hospital donor or something. Either way, I took it for a good sign. I thought it meant that everything was going to be just fine. I'd forgotten about that until just now.
A thousand times a day, I think of you. A thousand and one.
xx
a
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