Nine months of drizzle, two months of smoke, one glorious week of sunshine that everybody posts about like they discovered fire. You moved here for the mountains and now you own four rain jackets, a seasonal lamp, and a vitamin D prescription. You wait forty minutes for a ferry, another twenty for a latte with a name you cannot pronounce, and then you sit in traffic on a bridge that floats on a lake because of course it does. That is not love. That is a situationship with a state, and this shirt is the receipt.
Wear it to the farmers market where a flannel is formal attire. Wear it when the local football crowd melts down again and the whole region goes quiet for a week. Everybody will nod, because deep down they feel it too.
Soft, broken-in fabric that drapes right, holds its shape, and survives wash after wash without pilling or going sad in the shoulders. Breathable enough for a damp afternoon, cozy enough for a gray one.
