Little Bear, Big Bear

A memory while sitting at the airport

While closet-digging
and vacation packing,
I came across
a worn and faded tee.

The University of Maine
ironed letters
and red-tongued black bear
were showing the strains
of wear-wash-dry-wear cycle
all too well.

One arm had been
hand sewn
and the neck band
was loose and floppy.

Better rags than this
reside in a garage,
ready for car grease
and oil spills.

I held the dark blue shirt
to my face,
as if I could smell
the past in the fabric.

The left sleeve
had a hole,
from when Emily
dumped bleach;
helping with laundry.

The right one
showed a tiny tear,
caught on a rose thorn
while retrieving a lost ball.

The bottom hem
has been wet
with little girl's tears,
and dampened to wash dirt
from her little face.

Emily and I played
little bear, big bear
every time I wore
that old shirt.

She would giggle
at the way
my stomach
would expand and contract,
making the bear
pop up and dance.

I wiped a tear,
thinking how
an old shirt
can be so many things
to a child and her daddy.