The Sweater

The sleeves hardly reach my wrists.
The wool has faded in most places.
But it is still my favourite sweater
It is still my favourite memory.

The memory of her wrinkled hands
Shivering, as she held onto the needle.

The memory of her scolding me to stand straight
As she measured my arms, my shoulders, my waist.

It’s the memory of her clapping her hands to the rhythm
As I showed her the new dance I had learnt at school.

Of her tight grasp
As we crossed the street, to buy my lollipop.

Of her drying her hair in the winter sun
As I sat on her lap, eating oranges.

Of her kissing my forehead
Before I would go on a vacation.

Of her teary-eyed smile
As I showed her what I got for her from the vacation.

The sweater is the memory of her memory.
Because you see,
I don’t even remember when she lost hers.

When did she stop telling me stories?
When did she stop scolding me for not eating enough rice?
When did she stop oiling my hair?

When did she stop making me sweaters?
When did she stop hugging me?
When did she stop recognising me?

The sweater is the goodbye I didn’t even get to tell her.
It is the memory of her remembering her grand-daughter.

The sleeves hardly reach my wrists.
The wool has faded in most places.
But this is still my favourite sweater
It is still my favourite memory.