I’ve been thinking a lot about my father lately. He’s been gone for over twenty years—his life cut short. Now, as I approach the age he was when he passed, the memories seem to find me more often.

The other day, while going through a drawer of old sweatshirts, I came across one I hadn’t thought of in years: a purple-and-gray Roger Williams sweatshirt. I attended Roger Williams University in the late 90s, and it remains one of the most meaningful periods of my life. Even now, more than thirty years later, I think of my days in Bristol, Rhode Island, with nothing but pride and fondness.

I can still picture the day we bought that sweatshirt. It was Accepted Students Day. I was a bright-eyed girl, excited to leave home, meet new people, and start a life of my own in a new state. My dad was there with me, sharing in that excitement in his quieter way.

While I browsed the bookstore, drawn to the latest styles and colors, my dad wandered over to the clearance rack. That’s where he found it—a heavily discounted sweatshirt. The school had just transitioned from college to university, and its colors had changed from purple and yellow to blue and yellow. This one, with its outdated name and colors, was marked down.

I remember hesitating. I wanted one of the new ones like everyone else. But I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, and truthfully, I didn’t mind being a little different. So, I smiled, nodded, and agreed. We bought the clearance rack sweatshirt.

At the time, I felt a mix of emotions, slight disappointment, gratitude, and a quiet acceptance. But over the years, that sweatshirt became something else entirely. It became mine. Not just because it was different, but because of where it came from and who I shared that moment with.

Now, 33 years later, I still have it. I still wear it. And every time I do, I smile. I feel him. I feel that day.

It’s a memory etched in my mind: us, together.

I don’t just see a sweatshirt, I see that young girl standing beside her proud father, on the brink of something new. I see a moment frozen in time—simple, ordinary—and yet anything but.

And somehow, the “wrong” sweatshirt became exactly the right one.