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T-shirts may be simple, but they are hard to beat. They are lightweight, stretchy and, when made from cotton, comfortable in sweltering summer heat. They come in nearly every imaginable color and remain a relative bargain at a time when little feels affordable.

They can also carry years of memories.

When my younger daughter was a child, she began collecting souvenir shirts from Hard Rock Cafés. The collection started with one from Washington, D.C., then expanded during my husband’s international work trips to include shirts from Berlin, London and Sydney.

In Vienna, we hurried to buy a shirt from what we believed was another location in the chain. Only later did we learn that the café was not affiliated with it. The impostor shirt became a lasting family joke.

Some of my own shirts have earned special status. One commemorates the 2008 Red Skelton Festival in my hometown. Skelton was a local boy and a childhood playmate of my mother, so I reserve that shirt for special occasions.

Another old tee unexpectedly prompted a reunion at the gym. I had pulled out a shirt from a 1991 company picnic held by my husband’s workplace. While I struggled through a workout, a man remarked to my trainer, “That shirt is older than you are, kid.”

The voice belonged to one of my husband’s former co-workers, who had long since retired. We recognized each other and shared a laugh, delighted by the chance encounter.

My shirts may be faded and stretched, but that is no reason to surrender them. I plan to keep wearing these pieces of personal history until the fabric becomes nearly transparent.