When I was little, I wore pajamas to bed.
Bright-colored pajamas with racing cars and trains and zoo animals on them.
As I grew up, or the pajamas wore out, I’d get new pajamas.
And the old clothes ended up in the rag basket.
For wiping up spills in the kitchen or drying my dad’s car after we washed it.
I’d pick out the familiar tatters out of the basket and remember wearing them.
These days, I don’t wear pajamas.
And I use sponges and paper towels for spills.
And use the automated car wash at the gas station.