He folded the clothes on the bed. The white t-shirts were stacked on top of the dark blue jeans. Rummaging through the pile, his hands touched the soft wool. It was her sweater. Green as emeralds, fuzzy, and small. Smaller than he remembered. He held it up, thinking of her body.
Setting it down, absently, he ruminated about the era of telegrams. He imagined what he would write if limited by brevity.
I have your sweater. Shrunk it. Missing You. Meet at...
His mind trailed off. She would not want to meet to get the sweater. She would not even take his call. She wasn't talking to him at all. He would have to hold onto it. Could he bring himself to throw it away?
It seemed too valuable to toss into the trash. He put it in a drawer, underneath an old baseball uniform and on top of scattered matchbooks from restaurants across the U.S. that his Grandpa had collected.
He sighed as the drawer went clack.
Image source: https://www.vintage-retro.com/1950s-sweater/