I have a gray jersey for the winters, made of wool- a full zip up. My mother bought it for me when I was 14. Back then they were a trending fashion but my jersey was distinct. It didn’t have the ‘Diesel’ tag on the hem or anywhere else for that matter- it didn’t belong to any brand, It was unique like that and It was meant for me.
I remember a friend asked me about it because he wanted one too, and I had told him I didn’t know because my mum had bought it for me. Few days later he came up to me wearing a gray one too and told me it was easy to find and that’s how I came to know it was trending. But then like young competing bucks we took them off and compared to see which one looked better and it didn’t take long for my jersey to sway and win, my jersey had a softer and graceful tone to its color.
A few weeks later everyone was wearing one, black, gray purple, maroon and blue. It felt funny to see every other person ready for cozy display but each and every one of them was wearing a Diesel tag. You see they all looked generic and soon the fad got boring- Diesel’s reign had ended. But unlike the fad the journey of my jersey didn’t end there. Because for every winter after my hands where hiding in it’s sleeves; And it wasn’t late that it hung on to me into my bed.
When spring would bloom I would tug up the sleeves and when winter would return it would take me in a warm fuzzy hug, and somewhere in one those seasons I realized I was in love with it. It was worn and it was old but my heart was set and It remained gold, my hands felt safe in its loose hold.
But soon jealousy grew in the heart of time and 10 years had passed, a tear here and a few threads there, one day my mother saw me wearing it and said,
“I want to make a duster out of it”
I smiled and shook my head, and then I wondered if she remembered what it felt like when she bought it.