Inanimate objects do take on a sentimental glow of nostalgic yearning sometimes. There are clothing items from my past that make me wistful for the flower power of the 1960s.
In the case of my wonderful Afghan coat, the smell literally lingers on. I loved my Afghan, not in an unhealthy way you understand. I didn’t talk to it or anything weird like that.
It was the height of love and peace with flowers in our hair and bells round our necks. The flowers didn’t overcome the smell of the coat, which my husband David hated with a vengeance. My beige, suede coat with the feathery fur trim was warm, heavy and cozy. It did smell, especially if I’d been out in the rain.
It just so happened that I loved the smell and everyone I knew did not. My friends said that they could always smell me before they saw me if I was wearing it. They would talk about goat meat being left out in the sun and other graphic comparisons.
I didn’t care a hoot what anyone else thought. My heroes wore Afghan coats, including John Lennon. So what if it made all my other clothes smell in the wardrobe? It wasn’t just a coat; it was a statement. I’m not sure now, what the statement was but it was definitely saying something profound.
Alas, I no longer have my lovely coat. It disintegrated eventually, much to David’s relief. He feared it would return to haunt us and wanted me to ceremoniously burn it.
There was some talk recently about the Afghan making a comeback but it hasn’t materialized. I got very excited at the prospect. My husband, on the other hand, grew very nervous at the idea that I might own another one.
Perhaps, I should start a campaign to bring it back. I know other people must miss their coats too. That pungent aroma would bring back so many memories. Of course, it may land me in the divorce courts.
