My sweater sat, draped over an open drawer. I examined the stains and tears, earned from years of love. The garment seemed to be on its last legs, yet I longed to lose myself in the familiar fabric.

When I was six, my grandfather died from a heart attack. “Too full of love,” my mom said. I didn’t understand, but experienced a sense of relief when she said that. Her words comforted me like a loving blanket.

His loss hit the family hard. The funeral left a haze in my mind, our emotions a complicated, dark blur. Weeks passed before they could even get together to box up his life. No one wanted him to be gone.

I watched my family sort through his things. They converted our guest room into a sorting station, digging through polos, sweatshirts, and other things he’d wear. As I ran through the room, playing about, my mom dug out one of his newest sweaters. His favorite until the end. I watched her bring the fabric to her face and sniff. A tear leaked out and down her face. The piece looked smaller than the other clothes, bought for his shrinking frame. She hesitated before deciding on the “donate” pile. I stopped in my tracks, abandoning my fun to look at what she had set down. The sweater was a dark green, the color of pine. The scent reflected the image, saturated with my grandfather’s cologne. Everyone left once they were done. I returned to the guest room that night, hiding the shirt in my closet.

For a while, I let my secret sit, untouched. I still didn’t understand why Grandpa left. I only understood that I missed him. Overwhelmed, I’d slip the sweater over my shaking frame, crying until sleep came.

I let months pass before I began wearing it around the house. When my mom first saw me, she smiled briefly; afterward, she nodded and continued with her day. The rest of my family said nothing, offering only odd stares. The pain’s rawness prevented reprimand; its dullness, genuine concern.

Later, I started wearing the sweater to school. Mom voiced her concern, noting how much she loved seeing me in Grandpa’s old clothes. She worried I’d get criticism. I told her I didn’t care. Of course, she didn’t stop me; she silently supported my decision. Mom was right, though; kids would mock me since the sleeves were too long. Those were the first to come apart. I picked at loose threads and dragged the sleeves on the ground. They swallowed up my arms, creating a picture of me drowning in my oversized clothes. Those long sleeves didn’t matter to me, though, only the pine and warmth.

I’d wear it on days when I had tests, to doctors’ appointments, and before important events. My body felt more at ease, clinging to my lucky sweater. Green is a lucky color, right?

The more I wore the sweater, the worse its condition became. Those loose threads became frayed. Ink splattered on the sleeves from my latest creative endeavors. One day, I was running late for an exam and spilled coffee on myself; the smell of pumpkin spice mingled with pine, a scent that never faded.

Eventually, the sweater became a collage of my grandfather and me. Moments from my life intertwined with his memory. I lived in it almost every day. The pine came through, faint yet resilient. If I inhaled deeply enough, I could envelop my senses and picture my grandfather in that lovely green sweater, hugging me one last time.

It’s become unwearable now. Some unruly holes and stains just won’t come out, no matter how hard I scrub. What will I do when it’s gone? Will his memory fade from my being? That sweater and I have become inseparable. My family would always crack jokes about how I’ll have to be buried in it. Some tell me to let go, others understand. That garment is as much a part of me as my soul. I grew up in that sweater. I loved and cherished it. Without a reminder of him, I’m not sure what would remain.

I stared and stared until tears formed in my eyes. My sweater sat. I picked it up from the drawer. Forest green. Pumpkin spice. Earth. Sweat. Pine. I drank in the scent one more time, basking in every memory that flooded my system. My inability to use this old garment didn’t mean it had to fade. I could still hold on to these memories, live through them in my head whenever I needed to. My heart sputtered. I rose me to my feet, folded, and returned my last piece of him to my closet one final time, letting my grandfather rest in peace.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero