Each stitch tells a unique story of love, life, and loss. The grooves rising and dipping as your fingers flounder across the abyss of acrylic cotton. The dark forest green color added with the cable knit stitching seems like a cruel metaphor for suicide. See the irony? Tragic.

However upsettingly tragic the sweater may be, it also happens to be one of my most prized possessions. Every other weekend when my younger siblings and myself would visit him, I had the tendency to forget to pack enough clothes. My father was always getting tripe for his small build and height; which came to a strong advantage when it came to clothing because we were exactly the same size. One weekend I hadn’t brought anything to suit the harsh air-conditioning his apartment greeted us with; so I scrounged his closet for something appropriate of this era. Upon arrival, there was the dark, forest green, beauty. I fell in love. The grunge look, the smell of Avon Men’s Intrigue cologne with a hint of laundry detergent and the curry that was being prepared in the kitchen next door was intoxicating. So I took it. For months it was in my possession. He only asked me once if he could have it back and I said no. I was too in love!

Now, however, although this article of clothing is near and dear to my heart, it’s sort of terrifying how dependent I feel on it. Like if I were to misplace it I would suddenly be lost and nothing else in the world would matter until it was in my possession once more. I believe with death so close in mind in a way I feel more alive and closer to those I’ve lost while wearing it.

Think about this: a sweater is just a sweater. It’s just a material thing and in no way should define us as human beings. However, we’re always asked in the situation of a fire, “If you could only grab one thing, what would you take with you?”. Now, if my house was actually ablaze, I figure I’d be too busy trying to make sure everyone else was okay because five people and three dogs is a lot. But if I was able to grab something, it’d be the sweater on my body and journals in my arms. Because even if after it all, torn and scorched, it would still mean something. Like how even though everything is fucked up and growing up without a father can cause some serious psychological impairment, sentimental value has an intense hold over the way people react and view certain things in their lives.