Oregon: New Memories Made, Old Memories Cherished

My Old Sweater

There is a sweater that hangs
            in the closet of my heart.
            I keep it hidden there, tucked away, behind the now.

It’s an old-stretched-out-familiar-beautiful sweater.
I know each stitch.
Each snag.
Each color.
Each stain.
I know its scent.
            Sometimes I ball it up, burying my face
            in the sweet perfume of my snuggly babies
            or the aroma of Oregon sage floating on a warm breeze.
            Sometimes I pull it on, blanketing my whole self
            in the sweet perfume of French patisseries
            or the Christmas smells of  evergreen, peppermint and cocoa.

With time, the wool softened,
            a silky caress to the skin,
            a gentle soothing of the soul.
            There are days when I long for the comfort of this old garment;
                            moments when I let myself believe each thread is secure,
                                              just as it’s always been;
                                  seconds when I can thoroughly lose myself in the
                                              magic of the wearing.

But this sweater only hangs

          in the closet of my heart.

The now always has its hold on the precious strands of yarn.
And the old-stretched-out-familiar-beautiful sweater ravels –
            the disentangled threads free to discover new weaves, new colors, new wool.

As my children grow,
            the now pulls at the known stitches,
            and loosens the memorized fibers,
            and separates one thread from another.

As my children grow,
            I learn to let the precious strands pull away;
        I learn not to hold on too tightly so no strand will snap;
            I learn to enjoy each new weave and color and wool.

With time, I believe that today’s sweater will soften and stretch and be comfortable again.
Until then,
When no one’s looking,
            I will sneak into the closet of my heart
            and pull on that old-stretched out-familiar-beautiful sweater.
When no one’s looking.

**This poem was written as part of a Writer's Circle hosted by Alita and Bigger Picture Blogs**