made to last a lifetime

words by Aliza Susatijo, art by Mariam Seshan

i. Furiously knitting into the darkest hours

Of the night, relying on old memories of love

But the wool is biting into my skin, catching

On my earrings, scratching my neck until it is raw

Because I am chasing the last whispered memories of you

As it unravels in a heaping pile around me 

The difficulty of knitting is in its start

The measurements, the gauge, the swatch, finding the colors of you

Racing time and weaving against fate—the dreaded sweater curse

So I weave a bit of myself into every thread, every row

Our pressed memories in each whirling fiber

our history

woven into a cable-knit

stupor

ii.     But how can one sweater encompass our life together?

more than words, more than photos that document 13 years

all of our history and hopes for the future intertwined in a cable-knit

this sweater must last our lifetime

50% wool for the cold winters when our AC breaks

50% cotton for our summer vacations and 10,000 steps

As I ravel and unravel the rows of marshmallow white and pistachio green

The constant sound of frogging becomes a lullaby

Singing me into a stupor of reliability

It is so easy to create, so difficult to finish

Because how can I expect our memories to end?

Does the final woven thread mean we have come to the end of our memories?

dropped

hand-washed

dripping rain

ripping

iii.    So I unravel it all again

It must be perfect this time

No dropped stitches or crooked ribbing

Each seam in its place, a promise of security murmured into the cuffs

I’ll adjust the sleeve length and shorten the hems

Hand-washed in cold water and pinned to a mat to block it

And finally, it is warm and soft, folded and wrapped

Patiently waiting for the next day to celebrate you, but

you never come— 

something about rain and a 16-wheeler, your mom says on the phone

I don’t know, the words blurred as I tore tissue paper from sweater 

Ripping up my stupid letter with its looping cursive letters and heart-dotted i’s

The soft white and green melts into a simmering haze of deep red and storm-hued blue

Now nothing more than lost yarn to be wound up and forgotten

your life

swallowed

fraying

needle-pricked

iv.    I sit, enveloped in this too-large sweater

your too-large sweater

Draping down to the floor, swallowed by a sea of yarn

Suddenly it’s suffocating, this too-perfect sweater

The once-comforting warmth is sticking

No, melting into my skin

I notice the fraying edges 

the singular mistake I’d made above the heart (a purl instead of knit)

the pilled wool around the elbows

From my constant worrying, nit-picking at the smallest details

I notice the tear stains and the tiniest drop of blood from my needle-pricked finger

The ribbed collar is choking me, closing me in, sealing me with the memories of your 

loss

you

flecks of green

us

v.     But it is you

The knots and ridges of connected skeins 

Traversing our childhood and emerging adult lives

Every joke you’ve made, the flecks of green in your eyes and your abhorrence of pickles

Your refusal to bring a jacket even when it's below freezing

“I need to feel the air,” you’d say

And it is us

The pinky promise we made at eight to become the youngest air pilots ever

To fly above the fluffy white clouds and put a bit in a jar to take home with us

(never mind my abysmal eyesight and the general physics of clouds)

So our sweater will stay tucked between my comforter

and the fuzzy elephant you won for me at the arcade

For when the temperature drops or when I catch the flu

Or when I close my eyes and imagine you wearing this sweater

biting

whispered

whirling