Ode to My Favorite Sweater

I dressed in the vintage sweater I bought that November; it was like wearing an old memory. It hung too big on my frame and had seriously seen its best days long before it came into my possession but I loved it. And at ten dollars, I happily scooped it up, excited about our impending journey.


I had worn it while we plucked the quail feathers for our wedding, sipping red wine out of coffee mugs in the backfield by the fading zinnias and carrots. It had seen the beaches of Pichidangui the first spring in Chile, protecting me from the chilly sea air and campfire smoke. It accompanied me in dark nights in Laguna Verde while we ate undercooked pasta when the gas camping stove was the only means to a hot meal. And in the hospital after Lucia came, it served as our blanket, a reminder of the comfort of home as I draped it over us in my first moments as a mother.

Who knew nostalgia could come as a sweater, encompassing a moment in time so vividly that it actually stung to wear? But I pulled it on this morning anyway, determined to confront the sadness I feel, as this chapter slams shut.


This time, there are no tickets booked for the end of November to promise an escape before Pennsylvania’s bitter cold descends. Instead I’m bracing for the cold, knowing I can keep warm.

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