patched

I have this shirt.

 I love this shirt. It's a shirt I secretly confiscated from

my dad's closet when I was in high school. I wore it to 

"do my makeup" before shows in those days. 

These days, my love has grown stronger and I would wear it 

every day. 

Every. Day. 

You think I'm joking. 

 It used to be flannel. The lovely, robust Cherokee flannel

of the mid 1990s. But the robustness of said flannel

is not meant to last nearly twenty years, being worn by a girl 

who stole it from her sweet father. Now it is the kind 

of shirt a person would write about in novels and country songs: 

so old and perfectly worn in with all sorts of sentimental value.

 The problem with country song and novel old shirts is that they are old 

and perfectly warn and perhaps nearly thread bare, but they don't actually get

holes in them. Unless it's a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. 

Then there are all sorts of "interesting patches and darns."

So my beloved shirt is a Rosamunde Pilcher shirt.

A Rosamunde Pilcher shirt, people.

Scottish countryside, kaftans, charming tweed, intrigue, long walks and true love.

Wouldn't you create all sorts of interesting darns and patches 

to save a shirt like that? 

I would.