There’s a lot of love that’s woven into every sweater I own, but that’s mostly because all of the sweaters I own were knit by my grandfather. It was a bit strange to explain to everyone, yes my grandfather made this for me, no I don’t mean my grandmother.
Sometimes the wool chafes against my skin, but I only consider that a reminder of its presence – his presence – especially now that he’s gone. That’s why today, even though it’s almost a hundred degrees outside, there’s nothing else I would rather wear.
Maybe it’s the guilt. Guilt for not spending enough time with him, guilt for saying the wrong things, or maybe even the guilt that I couldn’t be there. When it happened.
My phone vibrates with unanswered calls and messages, all from concerned friends and family, asking me, begging me, to talk, scream, and cry to them. But to no avail. Home never felt so far away; kind of like the main door right now, especially since someone at the other end of it was going crazy knocking against it. I knew I couldn’t ignore it like my phone, so I trudged along, gathering immense willpower and energy, hoping somehow my limp limbs would once again be invigorated with life.
The person at the other end of the door was underwhelming, to say the least – he handed me a package without so much as a ‘hello.’ I flung the package across the room, but decided to open it after a moment’s contemplation.
Initially, I didn’t understand what the contents were or who even sent it. But then I felt it. The scratchy material. The infamous smell of the wool. There was no way. I scrambled it out of the box and held it against my face. Horribly stitched and had no colour coordination whatsoever, but it was all about the gesture. A sweater. Woven by my grandmother, woven terribly, but woven with truckloads of love.
(Picture credits: Canva)