My Red Hoodie
When I was 8 years old, my grandmother bought me a hoodie. ‘Are you sure you want that one? It’s for boys, darling!’ But I’d already taken it off the hanger, red, and soft, and big. The pocket became a home for my guinea pigs, a safe place to store my DSi on road trips and holidays. The hood hid my most vulnerable moments and valuable memories. I won stick fights and table tennis matches, made friends and lost them, in that red hoodie. It was with me before my symptoms started, and it stayed with me through every hospital appointment that followed afterwards. My heart broke when I tore the pocket climbing over an iron fence, and again when I grew out of it. But still, over 10 years later, when I wear red, I am reminded of who I am. Passion, pain, bravery, disappointment, defiance, creativity, love.
