For my 18th birthday, my granny knitted me a red cardigan. At the moment, it felt like a modest gift.
I recall opening it right away, saying a quiet “thank you,” and then dashing out the door to join my pals at the party. I didn’t truly get how much love and attention Mother put into each stitch when I was a kid.
She died a few weeks later, and the sweater was still in my closet. It reminded me of her, so I couldn’t wear it. I felt bad that I didn’t like her present when I had the chance.
I went to college, got married, and then had a baby. I didn’t touch the cardigan since I didn’t want to deal with it. I kept it to myself. Then, one afternoon while my daughter and I were cleaning, she found it.
I nodded as I watched her slide her arms through the sleeves.
At that time, she paused. “Mom, there’s something in my pocket.” When I reached inside and pulled out a small, yellowed piece of paper that had been carefully stored, my heart skipped a beat.
I opened the message with shaking hands and immediately knew it was my grandmother’s lovely handwriting. It said, “I hope this keeps you warm when I can’t,” to my lovely girl. Always remember how much others care about you. I couldn’t see because I was so upset.
My daughter stood next to me, holding my hand and not saying anything while I read the message.
It felt like my grandma had been waiting for me to get better for years since she put her love into every stitch of that cardigan before she said goodbye.
That news changed how I thought about the cardigan and how my grandmother lived her life. I told my daughter that she was strong and that I knew she was doing her best, even though she didn’t have much.
Now my daughter is thrilled to wear the cardigan. This isn’t just a piece of clothes; it’s also a part of our family’s history. To us, it’s more than just fabric and yarn; it’s a sign of love that has lasted for centuries. It reminds us that the people we care about will always be there for us. It just waits for us to find it again, coming up with new ways to get to us.
