I love this sweater.
It was a Christmas present from my parents my freshman year of high school. (that would make it 18 years old, for those of you keeping count) A big, baggy, green cable-knit sweater. I could tuck my knees up to my chest and pull the hem down over my feet so that I was just a big green ball of yarn with a head on top. I loved the hell out of it.
I wore it on our marching band’s trip to Southern California that same Christmas break. While I can’t recall exactly which day I wore it (I think it might have been the day we went to Disneyland) I do remember wearing it with a red turtleneck and my zip-ankle Jordache jeans and red Keds. That later became my standard getup whenever the green sweater was involved. People joked that I looked like a Christmas tree. One holiday season years later I capitalized upon that and hung earrings from the front of my sweater, donned a yellow star hairclip and brown leggings, and went around passing out the Christmas goodies I had made for all my coworkers.
There’s nothing fancy or overblown about the sweater. It’s just…green, cable-knit, baggy…and that’s that. But something about it made me love it enough to wear it even when it got so stretched out you could see my bare nipples through it. (which made me a hit amongst my male roommates’ buddies) There’s no good reason for me to still have it around all these years later. And yet, here it is, still hanging in my closet…getting at least one good wearing a year. Still so baggy I can almost wear it as a sweater dress.
Part of me thinks I really need to chuck it in the rag-bag for good, but still another part of me doesn’t want to let go. That part reminds me that I was wearing this sweater the first time I made out with this guy I really liked in high school. I slept in it that night because it smelled like him, cologne and sweat and hair gel.
It reminds me that I was wearing the sweater the night Brian Gabbard stopped by my parents’ house to visit two years after he graduated, and we chatted and played with my brother’s Matchbox cars on the kitchen table. I’d worn my hair in a big side ponytail that night. Not sure what possessed me.
It reminds me that I wore this sweater in Fort Bragg so many times, it should smell like damp redwoods and campfire. And every time, I had that ridiculous red turtleneck underneath for good measure.
It reminds me of the countless times I was sad or lonely or tired, and I pulled the sweater on and curled up on my bed and cried or felt sorry for myself or just sighed heavily and fell asleep in the comfort of it.
I’m not a packrat of physical things. I’m a packrat of memories. I cling to every memory I can. The physical things just help me to retain the memories. I’m afraid to find out what happens when I let those things go.