Insert imagination HERE....

This is my first ever blog post that is not accompanied by an illustrative photo.
Please use my words, combined with your imagination, to create the appropriate image:

When our daughter was very small... maybe 3 years old, she and Chris and I went to a Sunday morning flea market at the fair grounds in Memphis Tennessee. We searched for an affordable treasure or two among the junk. One vendor offered plus sized men's tee shirts. Since Chris is a plus size, he checked the booth out. He came away with one ugly purchase. Something the vendor called a "Texas Tee." Size 5 x. HUGE. And beige, (not a real color!) A loose knit pocket tee, offering little in the way of fashion.

I rolled my eyes. Little did I know that shirt would become a family favorite. The fabric has a bit of stretch to it, the neckline is loose and giving, the whole thing feels like, OK, I'll just say it, it feels like wearing a hug.

Chris wore it a lot, banging around the house, cooking, mowing and enjoying leisure time. It was washed often. It acquired stains and a scent all its own. Even fresh out of the wash it looked disreputable.

I borrowed it a time or two. Tiny Rachel wore it, down to her little ankles, as a dress up ball gown, as a cozy nighty. The shirt acquired a patina of comfort. When I was sick, I wanted to don it. When Rachel was sick, she insisted upon wearing "the big Daddy shirt." It saw her through many a virus, chicken pox, much needed nap and a flu or two.

Eighteen years or so have passed. Rachel recently came home for a lovely visit. The first night home her car was packed with all her "stuff," and she arrived here too late to unpack. Looking for something for her to wear I asked, "Want to wear something of mine? Something of Dad's?" Her weary eyes lit up, "The 'big Daddy shirt?'" I dug it out, tucked deep in a bottom drawer. I held it to my face as I brought it to her, inhaling deeply. It smelled of sun and detergent and Chris and time and love. A good smell. A soft smell. I held it up, the generous neck dropped over our daughters head. The sleeves hung almost to her wrists, the hem danced around her knees. She sighed when the smooth fabric embraced her. A happy, coming home and feeling good sigh.

That shirt. That purchase I rolled my eyes at, has become a family icon. Something that offers fashion-less comfort and softness and familiarity. With stains. I suspect that long after Chris and I are gone, Rachel will have that shirt stashed in the back of a closet... that her kids will dance with its hem brushing their ankles. That she will hold it to her face and breath in the scent of times gone by. That shirt will be what memories feel like.