The Sweater Poem by Jenny Kalahar

After my grandpa passed away
Mom said she wanted one thing from his closet:
a rust-brown cardigan he'd worn for years
with moth holes sewn over in zigzag stitches
the hem stretched
buttons that didn't quite match.
She wore it as often as Grandpa
taking over a part of his skin or bones or essence.
At first, I wondered why my dad never wore it
never wanted to carry on his father's tradition
and why my mom very much did

I have a photo of Grandpa on his sun porch
newspaper open at lap level
his horn-rimmed glasses framing his eye's secret merriment
and that cardigan keeping him warm for the first hours of the day
the ball field in the background through the windows
me at the table a few feet away in pigtails,
slurping cereal
happy to be right there with my grandparents
woolly-warm and loved

When my mother hugged me wearing that sweater
the particular scratch of the shoulder against my cheek
transferred some of the affection I had for Grandpa
into my mom
like a magnet drawing that distinctive brand of love
from my heart to hers.
And now I understand—
the borrowance
was her way of keeping Grandpa's love flowing into me
using the still-earthly instruments of her arms