Fibers like sponge. Memories imprint softly.  Washed, they remain. I grab you from the rack, ask my dad for his opinion. I throw you on, and they flood me. Peaceful evenings on a boardwalk, somewhere sweet. A bitter goodbye. Your fibers’ pores release them. I smell the cedarwood and smoke, of the memories imprinted. Into the yarn, the terrycloth, the wool, the denim. Now washed in detergent and fabric softener— to soften the saturation of those moments. But they remain. You smell like me now, have cat hair embedded in you— but they remain.