You’re a good old brown sweater.
March 9, 2012 § 12 Comments
You’re a friend, in the way only the familiar inanimate can be.
Frayed cuffs. Pin-holed at the seams.
But in truth, you’ve been headed toward disrepute since the day I met you.
You were a gift from my friend Sami, who has a connection for slightly damaged cashmere sweaters (I’ve never been, but I imagine the store as a no-kill shelter for unwanted knitwear).
Sami mends the bargains she sends me, but some holes get by. And I’ve added a few. I don’t mind the holes. They give a good old sweater like you character.
You are unobtrusive and not one bit show-offy, the color of Wheatena, which is good. Brown is my color. I know because, in one of her fits of making me over, my fashionable daughter said that the key was discovering “my color.” After numerous me/color comparisons she announced, “Your color is…brown.”
At first I was disappointed. But she was right. Brown is my color.
You, friendly old sweater, are completely broken in, and adapted to the shape of me. Your pockets harbor squished paper towels (the sturdy version of Kleenex) and often my hands. When I want to disappear the hands go first.
In addition to rendering me invisible you are soft. You do not itch. Your sleeves are extra-long, so who needs gloves?
When my daughter mocks you and offers a shopping trip to find your heir apparent I will hold onto you fiercely.
A new sweater, still smelling of store, would have nothing on you. Like a favorite stuffed animal you show the wear and tear of being well loved–an honorable form of aging, like the smile wrinkles that mark a happy person’s face.
You da man brown sweater. You and me are going places.
Note: Donovan put the same idea into song: I Love My Shirt. Shirt, jeans and shoes are celebrated. I’m sure sweaters would have been in the next verse if Mr. Leech hadn’t already used his alotted three minutes.