Forgotten T-Shirts

And then the Moleskine notebook came into contact with a t-shirt. Its name was Jamaica. The Moleskine was on an ottoman. The shirt was the first of many to be stacked on top of it, and given away to goodwill. Jamaica did not want to go. It cried and it cried as it was folded and placed on the ottoman, and the Moleskine felt its cries. It asked why it cried, and the shirt told it of love.

A shirt is the closest (save the underwear) thing to the skin and the essence of mankind, said the shirt. There is a relationship in the experience we wear. When we slide over someone’s head, they breathe our smell like a bee smells a flower. Each shirt has a unique life to share, the Moleskine concluded. Jamaica was unique, and realized its sorrow. Jamaica was a soccer shirt paying tribute to its local futbol association. Jamaica smelt of sand and wood and sweat. It smelt like the beach and the waters of the Caribbean.

“I didn’t want it to end this way,” begged Jamaica. It was getting squished closer and closer to the Moleskine notebook as Zucker continued placing shirt after shirt on top of them. The Moleskine could not help the poor, forgotten shirt, but listened to its story. Eventually, the stacking stopped, and Zucker started to pick up the shirts and place them in a plastic bag. The bag eventually seemed full, and the Jamaica shirt was still on the ottoman with another, softer shirt from Cape Cod. They felt each other’s presence and knew what was going to happen. For a fleeting moment they assumed mercy was given. Only for a moment, because a moment later, they were both swiped up and squished on top of the other shirts.

Cries of agony came from the swallowing plastic, and when Zucker tied the knot, sealing them in, their cries became muffled and disappeared as he took them away to the storage closet. They would rest in that closet for several months, until one day brought to the Salvation Army.