This Sunday morning as I drink my coffee and watch the birds from my window, I am wrapped in my white terry cloth robe. This robe is relatively new, a holiday gift from a few years back, but it’s begun to find its place in my collection of comforting clothing. As these days at home slowly pass, I find I’m wearing the same old jeans and sweatshirts day after day. I’m not thinking about appearances or even about the joy of dressing in something new (to me). Rather, I’m drawn to the comfort of my old, age-softened clothes. When I put on the saggy, wrinkled t-shirt I got on a long-ago trip to Hawaii or the one I was gifted when I spent my 65th birthday zip lining on Camano island with dear friends, those memories wrap around me in a hug of fabric. Our old clothes are imprinted with our shapes, our repeated and usually unconscious patterns of movement, our smells, and our histories. This morning I am warmed with gratitude for apparel with a personal history.