Worn and soft, the threads still hold,  
A warmth that lingers, quiet and bold.  
Plaid like the days he’d spend outside,  
Wearing it golfing or mowing with pride.  

Old Spice lingers, familiar and sweet,  
Like dust from the trails beneath our feet.  
Four-wheeling wild, his laugh in the air,  
Mischievous smile, free without a care.  

I see him sitting on the dock, drinking a beer,  
Sun on his face, summer drawing near.  
That red-worn flannel, faded and thin,
Faded like the pictures of him.  

Will I ever stop missing him?  

Though he’s gone, the fabric remains,  
A silent echo through life’s refrains.