For almost two years, I’ve worn the same style of pants.
For the last eleven months, I’ve worn the exact same pair.
Cheap linen.
Soft as memory.
Marked with paint from early morning sessions.
Spilled drinks from laughter-heavy nights.
Chalk dust from crouching beside Jettie on the porch.
They were a timeline—stitched and stained.
Yesterday, the knee gave out.
Not in a symbolic, graceful way—just a rip, sharp and inevitable.
Still, I wore them today, pretending I could stretch their life a little longer.
But the tear grew ridiculous, like the pants themselves were saying,
"It’s time."
Mary, with that gentle nudge only she knows how to give, said she’d order me a new pair.
They’ll be here in a few days.
A fresh start.
A blank page.
But if I’m honest, I’ll miss the hell out of this pair.
It’s funny, the way we attach to things.
Not out of status or aesthetics, but because they’ve held us.
They’ve carried our days.
Soaked up our joy.
Absorbed the quiet grief.
These pants weren’t just clothes—they were witnesses.
To my art.
To my mess.
To my life with Mary and Jettie and the evolving strange beauty of being myself.
Now, they’re destined for paint rags.
A new form of usefulness.
Not gone—just transformed.
Maybe that’s the best we can ask for, in the end.
Not everything we love has to be preserved.
Some things get to disintegrate with grace.
Some things say goodbye by becoming something else.
I’ll let them go, thread by thread.
With thanks.