A Brown Shirt

Brown Shirt

“You know I love you,” he said, hand poised in mid-air.

“I love lots of people,” he added, his eyes bright.

“We are friends,” he said, “and I love you.”

He loved me like a brown shirt.

He loved me as if there were 15 others in his closet, just waiting to be chosen for the day.

He loved me like an egg white omelet, a Monday morning, a hazy day.

“Is this also how I love myself?” I asked.

Do I love myself like a Tuesday afternoon, a turkey sandwich on store-bought bread, black work pants, a re-run on a weeknight?

His brown-shirt kind of love seemed to only reflect my own.


 - Jenny James


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