WristScan

. . . that t-shirt.  I bought it in the mid-'70s at a surf shop in Huntington Beach and wore it sparingly for decades, mostly on special occasions like concerts and such.  The first rips started appearing decades later, so it was retired to a hanger at the end of the closet.

Then, one day, years after it was last seen hanging in the corner, I went looking for it.  It wasn't there.

I thought, "Maybe it was packed away in one of my storage containers."  So I went thru those boxes.  Not there.

I scratched my head.  "Couldn't have thrown it away; it'll turn up eventually."

Shortly afterwards, Mom asked me to polish a brass samovar.  "Sure, Mom."

"Let me get you a rag and the Brasso."  (I was sitting on the couch, watching a ball game.)

"Thanks, Mom."

A minute later, I was staring at the rag.

Apparently, she found it in the guest closet, and seeing how worn it was, gave it to Uncle Nate when he needed a shirt to do some gardening.

 

That giant rip?  Uncle Nate's doing.

   

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