What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?
What’s the oldest thing I’m wearing today?
Not the boots.
Not the jacket.
Not the watch pretending time means anything.
It’s the uneasy stomach.
The golf ball lodged in the throat.
The cracked heart stitched together with bad sleep, caffeine and whatever people call “moving on.”
Those are old.
Ancient, really.
Hand-tailored over years by loss, disappointment, memory, guilt, love and the quiet observations you never talk about out loud because everyone else is busy performing wellness like it’s an Olympic sport.
I wear old conversations that never ended properly.
Old funerals.
Old versions of myself I buried but still hear scratching around under the floorboards at 2 a.m.
None of it was designed by me.
It was made for me.
By every slammed door.
Every hospital hallway.
Every “I’m fine” that wasn’t.
Every moment you realized the world keeps spinning with horrifying confidence no matter what it takes from you.
That’s the oldest thing I’m wearing today.
And somehow, against all logic, it still fits.
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