Sweatshirt Tears

I was on my yoga mat, following along with my yoga channel.
I was directed to go in a child's pose (gladly) and breathe deeply.
My face became lost in my sweatshirt, many sizes too big, as I curled in on myself.
Of course it was a Mount Holyoke sweatshirt.
And it was my father's Mount Holyoke Sweatshirt.

He wore it in the chilly months whenever he exercised. And as I was in this tunnel of grey, breathing deeply, resting shaking muscles, I had a flash.

Spring sky, dappled light, as he walked down the Esplanade.

Standing at the toaster, waiting for his breakfast, and tapping the butter knife in a song.

Sitting on the porch, watching the birds, with the newspaper folded on his knee.

Trying to give my mother a hug, sweat still pouring down his face, her batting him away.

Rocking in his rocker, a few minutes more before going to take his shower.

Sleeve rolled up for his post-stroke, weekly blood draws.

Standing in the kitchen, face beaming, asking me,
"Do you love me, or what?"
"I love you, Dear Ol' Dad."
"OK. I will take my walk now, Kitty Kat."

As I saw him perfectly, as if yesterday, walking down the driveway, I was afraid to inhale knowing it would only give me the air to cry.

And there I cried, in the privacy of his sweatshirt, in the joy of all I remember, and the sadness of why his sweatshirt is now mine.