PJ shirt, oh PJ shirt, how we have grown together---you stretched, and ripped, and grew holes like Swiss cheese, and I grew taller and out of the child's section at Old Navy, where we first met. At first you were not a PJ shirt, no; rather, you were a lavender, or maybe lilac (which is more pink that purple) camisole I wore under sweaters, black sweaters; a shirt my sister once was envious of, or maybe mocking, but one she inquired about our relationship standing outside in the driveway, as we were ready to board the car on the way to a dinner party. I paired you with a hideous cool-hued scarf, though I'm not sure where this was on my body, but I know I wore it along with you.
Oh PJ shirt. When was it that you were dubbed no longer fit for everyday clothes and dubbed a sleeping article? Do you remember? I do not. Your twin, in pink, is still lost at sea (or at Lindsay Little's house), and you are soon to be thrown away. You've seen my tears, and felt my sweat; your tender, thin straps dug into my shoulders in restless nights of non-sleep once they rid themselves of thread and strangely did not disintegrate. You bear the marks of fabric well washed----fading, thin patches, drooping thread count. Alas, we shall not be together much longer, for you embarrass me with your XL girls' section tag and your failure to match any pajama pants I own.
We've been through much, old PJ shirt. You're destined for the dump....but maybe I'll fold you into a box and refer to this ode once a year.
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