The Sweater
I'd forgotten about the sweater. When the first chill of changing seasons descended, I came across the sweater, folded neatly in a sweater box in my closet. The moment I saw it, a wave of memory overcame me. Instantly transported back, there I was, sent back to a time in the past where I sat at the kitchen table in his house, reading blogs and email on my laptop. I remembered every little detail of that moment -- where things were in the kitchen, the glasses, what they looked like, the view outside the window over the sink and out the back door. My mind shifts to the cup of coffee handed to me while sitting outside. I see the trees in the yard, the cardinal flying past, the deer pellets in the grass. He gave me the sweater to keep warm and said I could keep it.
At one time I was asked what my memories were of the time we spent together. I faltered, unable or unwilling to pinpoint specifics. My mind was overwhelmed and overflowing with many experiences but unable to select even one of them. It was almost a subconscious refusal to make proclamations about the past. That was then, and this is now.
Today my memory bank overflows with mental movie clips and snippets of days gone by. There's the clip of arriving at the house and being distracted from taking the mental snapshot of that moment by my ringing cell phone, the tour of the house, the visits through the neighborhood. I see every single moment now, and recall with amazing detail street corners, shops and clumps of dirty snow. One might think that such vivid and microscopic detail would come from having spent years in one place, but I'd spent just a few days. And yes, I even remember the chill of the bedroom and eventual warmth as well as sound sleep.
There is so much more I remember. The lines in his face, how he'd bound up the stairs, practically tripping on his way to see me, then lifting me right off the floor and into the air. The recollection of the first time he did that, in the middle of the street while snowflakes fell. I remember our travels. The exact moment when the country went to war and what we talked about and where we were when we discussed it. The 6th of each month, what we called our "versary." Memories so intense I fight with them constantly and eventually put them aside when the memory of being replaced with something better comes to mind.
A better education. A better pedigree. A better ego. A better location. A better position in this world. A better outlook. A better personality. A better home. A better habit. In reality, it's not better, it's just different. It's what you do when the lease on your car expires: you trade in and you trade up. And contrary to what was written by me long ago, there is no hate toward him. There is, however, hate for not saying goodbye to my face, hate in the thought that looking me in the eye and telling me what happened was never done. I hate that the day I last saw him I didn't know it was the last time.
Why I continue to hold on to this sweater, so personal and full of memory, is yet to be determined. Perhaps it's my way of remaining in touch even if it's subconscious contact. Maybe the reason I've kept the sweater and wear it on occasion is my way of still having that person in my life, an unwillingness to let this article of clothing and all the memories it evokes go elsewhere. It's a way of feeling close to that which is no longer but was indeed close at one time. Or it is my way of saying that no matter what transpired in the end, he was an important part of my life. No matter what the reasons are, it is my reminder. The vestigial sweater: remaining after all the rest has disappeared.