A threadbare red sweater with arms too long,

A pair of frilly socks soiled with days of play.

A hiked hem brushing goose-bumped knees,

A twisted tie with a knot drawn tight.

One could imagine these pieces of sentiment started all the same.

A swath of cloth,

A loom of thread,

A stylized design,

And nimble hands.

These articles of clothing seem to follow us wherever we go,

Swaddling us on the best of days,

And smothering us on the worst.

On those days, the worst of them, it’s easy to put a jacket or a pair of pants on trial.

To belittle and blame them,

And bleach them colorless with guilt.

There’s a cautionary tale perhaps,

Woven through the seams of clothing,

And looped around crooked buttonholes.

One could press warnings like iron marks on the hems of too short skirts,

Or thread the importance of layers, layers, layers atop over-exposed shirt collars.

They could warn you of the betrayal of your favorite dress,

Or suggest that maybe your pink palette should be muted.

They could tell you that cotton and linen, polyester and rayon, are to blame for all your troubles.

But in the end a shirt is just a shirt,

A skirt is just a skirt,

And a red sweater is just a red sweater.

They are not words,

They are not hidden innuendos,

Or heavily veiled promises.

They are not mature consenting things who speak for their owners,

Nor do they prove a body’s dishonesty under scrutinizing eyes.

There are no deviant suggestions buried under lace,

Or unspoken conversations polished into belt buckles.

Clothes are not accountable for actions and words.

No, they are.

I promise they are not.

They are just pretty articles of fabric,

To cloak and cover vulnerable skin,

To cushion and caress calloused heels or skinned knees.

They are,

After all,

Reconstituted filaments of cellulose,

Synthetic woven cloth,

Or natural fibers borrowed from the earth.

They are not at fault,

They are not bad or wrong or untrustworthy,

And they are certainly not liable for offense simply by existing.