Delta40
05-08-2011, 05:07 AM
You're like that old green cardigan
I had as a child. Did I knit it or was it you?
I remember I wore it anytime I felt cold.
It took a while for me to do the buttons up by myself.
but once you showed me, my fumbling fingers
tried their best to imitate your manicured hands.
Over the years, it frayed, candy floss stuck to the cuffs
and you threw it away but I saved the buttons.
Each one had come loose for its own reason.
Caught on the gate when I raced home in the rain
Chewed off by a naughty kitten.
Twisted free when I started a new school.
As they dropped off, I placed them in a jar
of meaningful odds and ends.
A two pence piece, a rose quartz stone, a broken chain.
They each tell a story like an unreconciled key.
Once my child prised the lid loose and they scattered across the table
onto the floor.
Somewhere in the far corner, between my own childhood memories
I found her tiny milk teeth.
Tears flowed. Joyous, sad, content.
Now my young daughter tries to knit a bolero jacket
but she fumbles, drops the stitches, loses patience.
Finally, she throws the needles down and exclaims: I give up!
While she sleeps, I fill in the holes, knit more rows
until one day she marvels over her creation.
I sewed it together with those three brown buttons.
Now, I am like that old green cardigan.
She can wear it anytime she feels cold.
I had as a child. Did I knit it or was it you?
I remember I wore it anytime I felt cold.
It took a while for me to do the buttons up by myself.
but once you showed me, my fumbling fingers
tried their best to imitate your manicured hands.
Over the years, it frayed, candy floss stuck to the cuffs
and you threw it away but I saved the buttons.
Each one had come loose for its own reason.
Caught on the gate when I raced home in the rain
Chewed off by a naughty kitten.
Twisted free when I started a new school.
As they dropped off, I placed them in a jar
of meaningful odds and ends.
A two pence piece, a rose quartz stone, a broken chain.
They each tell a story like an unreconciled key.
Once my child prised the lid loose and they scattered across the table
onto the floor.
Somewhere in the far corner, between my own childhood memories
I found her tiny milk teeth.
Tears flowed. Joyous, sad, content.
Now my young daughter tries to knit a bolero jacket
but she fumbles, drops the stitches, loses patience.
Finally, she throws the needles down and exclaims: I give up!
While she sleeps, I fill in the holes, knit more rows
until one day she marvels over her creation.
I sewed it together with those three brown buttons.
Now, I am like that old green cardigan.
She can wear it anytime she feels cold.