english class #2
My grandma gave me this sweater
And honestly, I hate it.
Something about the bright pink color,
The weird shape of the sleeves,
So tight and constricting.
The wool fabric that somehow feels so sharp
As though needles got sewn in.
The open front that wasn’t really a sweater
Not really a cardigan, not really a vest.
The sweater could be looser,
Maybe a different material,
Maybe a different color.
I usually have sort of a taste for sweaters,
But there was something about this one
That I really didn’t understand.
I tried so many times to style it
With different jeans and shirts to wear under,
But something about it wasn’t meant to be.
This was, of course, a couple years back.
Now the sweater sits in the bottom corner of my closet
And I look at it again with the fresh eyes of
Young adulthood.
I can’t bring myself to throw the sweater away,
So there must be something about it I like.
Maybe it’s the implication of the hard work,
The many hours of effort that went in.
The former potential of knitting talent
Lost to the consequences of age.
The gift of an item of utility,
Squandered to growth and rejection.
The love of a handmade item
Wasted on arms that didn’t appreciate it.
Ungrateful, Unappreciative, Unthankful.
And maybe every time I move to throw it out
My hands are pushed back down to my sides,
Heavy with the weight of the guilt.
The weight of inaction and neglect.
So maybe it wasn’t the sweater who needed to change,
Maybe it was myself
Who should have grown to fit it.
Maybe it was me,
Who could still learn to like it.
For its boldness was a statement
Not something to hide and force to conform.
And maybe now I could wear it,
Like she would have wanted.