I dressed myself this morning, like you do, and as I drove to work, I reflected on the layers that  I had decided to put on myself, both literally and figuratively. I’m sporting a jacket I got at a vintage store 10 years ago in Boston, to wear to a wedding I was attending with my boyfriend at the time who would ultimately not be my husband, at a time when the idea of my actual self getting married felt so foreign to me that weddings just felt like long parties with slightly better clothes. Under this jacket, I’m wearing the flannel of Morrison and I’s  wedding colors that I got to wear to our welcome dinner the night before we wed. If I sniff it really deep, I can still smell the campfire. Food as memory, clothes as memory, memory as memory, amiright?