Ode To My Long Lost Wool Hiking Sweater
by Jenna Miller
A raglan of pure Merino wool, charcoal, thick
with tiny curls that kinked and fuzzed. You
made winter hikes a new possibility. The rain
would bead in globes, my layers fully dry.
When it snowed and the trail disappeared,
there was nothing to worry about. I had you.
And that time we hiked Paulina Lake, the ranger
asked if I'd be warm enough in you. Sized me up
like he reckoned he'd have to pack us out later.
I sipped hot buttered rum from a Thermos. He
bent to start and rev his chainsaw. Out of respect,
I'd handwash you in the sink. Close my eyes and I
could feel the sheep bumping against me. Warm
smells of freshly shorn wool, irrigation canals,
and cloverfield. When the elbows wore thin, I
stitched you up in coarse yellow thread. Sutures
I wanted made visible. To show, this thing is loved.
Mended, like a true love deserves. We take care
of this thing. Hearts on our sleeves as proof.
I did everything right. I know I did. On my last day,
I opened every drawer, trying to find my sweater.
She was careless, I think. Borrowed and shrank it.
Didn't have the heart to tell me. My suit of armor.
My selkie cloak. Ten years of memories,
threaded into one sweater. I would have fixed it.
There are rare finds in life, for which there are no
replacements. I would never do what she did.
No matter what. I close my eyes. Count the sheep
it took. Ghosts bumping against my thighs on
that windy island, where I left my wool sweater
behind, for good. I think about the innocence of
lambs. The wolf she was in my favorite sweater.