The first thing you unwrapped
was a sweater.
It was covered in brown paper.
It was Christmas.
You looked it over and nodded,
threw it over the sofa's arm rest.

The last thing you unwrapped
was a Power Ranger.
It was still in its original box,
shiny and new.
You ripped it open immediately,
and played with it all through dinner.

You wore the sweater every night that winter
and many nights after.
You stretched its wool
and laundered its stripes
until it became unrecognizable.

You slept with that Power Ranger every night that winter.
You put it away after your birthday.
The paint's still crisp
and there's barely a scratch
except for that one time you accidentally dropped it down the stairs.

When you threw away the Power Ranger,
nobody was surprised.
Put it in a bag,
you didn't even bat an eye.

When you threw away the sweater,
and I asked you why,
you said, no reason,
you'd outgrown it
even though it fit you just fine.

You told me you were having problems,
and when you dumped her,
nobody was surprised.

You told me things were changing,
and I asked you why.
You said no reason, you'd just outgrown somethings,
we'd be fine.
And I believed you.


Looking back,
I always thought I was the Power Ranger
and she was the sweater.

I guess I was wrong about that, too.