When my youngest son was still at home, he frequently raided my closet, making off with my shirts and socks mostly, sometimes a jacket or a belt. I retaliated, using his t-shirts for workouts, and we exchanged words. “Don’t even think about it, buster!!” I’d scream as he headed for school in my polo shirt. “That’s a really bad look, fatso!” He’d scream as I headed for the gym in his Nike t. It became kind of a ritual, each of us making our objections known, but never forcing the other to actually remove the purloined garment. Now that he’s gone and I have free access to all of what he left behind, I can’t bring myself to raid his closet because I know I won’t have the pleasure of that connection. And I find myself hoping that he took something of mine to college, and that he’s wearing it proudly.