a hand-knit sweater

undyed wool the colour of porridge, with a single cable braided down the centre and a ribbed cuff that has stretched to fit a smaller wrist than its first. she made it across one winter, mostly by the kitchen fire, and finished it on the eve of a thaw. there is a single dropped stitch she knew about and did not go back for.

worn last on a long afternoon of nothing — sitting, drinking a tea she had forgotten she was drinking, watching rain on the kitchen window. she folded it that evening and put it back. she did not know it would be the last time.

it sits on the middle shelf, neighbour to the winter scarf and below the paisley shawl. the sweater smells of cedar and very faintly of the soap she used.

field-note: a length of the original yarn coiled inside the cuff — kept against the day a repair becomes necessary.