Tracksuit
When Rasa was born, relatives in Florida mailed her a pink polyester tracksuit.
It was tiny.
But also much too big.
Rasa couldn’t wear it until she was three years old.
Then, though, she looked awesome.
*
I loved how Rasa looked in the tracksuit to the point of envy.
I wanted my own pink polyester tracksuit.
We’d go out together.
Stroll the boulevard.
Or just run errands.
*
“Mon dieu,” people would say.
“Are you models?”
I’d act surprised.
Say: “Us…?”
“No…”
“What could you mean…?”
And then interrupt when they opened their mouth.
“Oh!”
As if I’d just realized it.
“So weird, right?”
“What are the odds?”
I’d gesture back and forth between and me and Rasa.
“Her and me?”
“Both wearing our tracksuits today?”
*
Kids grow up so fast.
Especially three-year-olds.
Recently I said to Rasa: “Remember when you were a little kid…?”
“And you and I had matching pink tracksuits?”
Rasa gave me a strange look.
“I’ve seen pictures of me in a pink tracksuit,” she said.
“But you didn’t have one, did you?”
I thought about it.
“Oh yeah,” I admitted.
The pink polyester tracksuit fit Rasa for eight weeks.
Then it was too small.
I hadn’t had time to buy my own.
“I guess I didn’t.”
*
It’s an eerie feeling.
Picturing something.
Wanting it.
Imagining the satisfaction that would bring.
To the point, years later, you’re convinced you did have it.
You remember it vividly and fondly.
And then realizing/remembering that you didn’t have it.
Not really.
Not ever.
You just made that up.
*
I wandered the house in a funk for several hours after my conversation with Rasa.
Then I shopped online.
I didn’t buy us matching pink polyester tracksuits.
But I did buy myself pink jeans.
Even searching the entire internet, there was only pair, from one brand, in men’s, my size, available.
The color is closer to pale indigo than true pink.
I’m still happy, however.
Whenever I wear them, the jeans remind me of this really amazing time in my life.
Even though it never happened.