I've had a few. I'm willing to talk about this particular one.

It was summertime, and I was sitting for the umpteenth day in a row in my Mother's freezing cold hospital room waiting to finally hear what her damn problem was. I figured it must be really bad because nobody would tell me anything. It was my turn to sit with her for six hours and watch tv, talk to her, get her something, sleep upright in a chair.

I remember wearing a black cashmere cardigan which had been a present from my ex-fiance. Years before he'd sent me three links to sweaters for a Christmas gift and told me to pick out the one I wanted. I chose a mid-range one, and I loved it. It was immediately as if I'd always owned it. Warm and soft, and just the right weight. Pretty and classic and modern. When he hugged me or held me, it retained his smell until I dry cleaned it. I wore it all the time. After I broke up with him, I kept wearing it, especially during all the hard times.

I wandered the hospital that day, wearing jeans and my sweater, bored and afraid. I ate little packs of pretzels and big red apples bought from a vending machine and rinsed clean at a water fountain. And I waited.

I learned my Mother had cancer. Two years later she died. I moved across the country and the cardigan came with me. A lot of hurt and anger and disappointment, both old and new, constantly wore me down. I thought I needed to accept my losses and cut ties to the past. One summer day, not unlike the day I spent waiting, I opened up a Dumpster and childishly chucked the sweater inside.

I don't miss my ex. I'm not angry over her death any more. But I wish I'd kept that piece of cloth.