The Crimson Sweater

I remember the first time I’d seen the once beautiful, crimson sweater.

It was when I attended my mother’s funeral, at the ripe age of 11 and a half years old possessing feelings of dejection. I didn’t completely understand the weight of the situation me and my siblings were placed in because my mother died, nor did I know what would happen to us next. However, I do remember the obituaries that were given out that gloomy day; more specifically, I perfectly remembered the cover of that small book.

It was a picture of my mother, using her best smile and exuding a look of great expense and happiness.

She was wearing a sweater with the most beautiful shade of red, which happened to flawlessly match the tint of lipstick she had put on and wore a handsome set of gold jewelry. My mother stood out undoubtably, leaning against a rather plain background in comparison to her.

Before that day I’d never seen the picture, nevertheless the sweater she wore. In all my 11 and a half years of following her around, foot and foot, not once had I seen her wear any piece of clothing that complemented her so well, personality and all.

It’s a shame that I only came to know of this wonderful photo of my mother after she died. So, I wasn’t able to tell her of how gorgeous she looked with that sweater, although, no matter what she wore or how she looked I would’ve told her she was gorgeous.

In fact, of all the photos she left behind, even the ones including me and my other siblings, that photo of her in the red sweater is my absolute favorite. Which is a bit ironic being the only reason I came to know of it was due to her funeral. However, in that picture she just seemed so happy and radiant, none of her other photos hit me the way this photo did. To which, this caused my love for that particular photo of her and that gorgeous sweater to grow even greater, when I found it after a period where I almost forgot how my mother looked.

Sometime after the funeral my siblings and I moved in with some relatives, and for about 4 years I’d never looked back at a picture of my mother; relying only on dwindling memories of what she was like and how she looked. Until I genuinely could no longer clearly remember her face or her bright smile.

When I realized this, panic had set in, and I’d dug up all of my mother’s old belongings, I owned, to find ANY picture of her as quickly as possible. Fortunately, to my luck and surprise. I found her obituary, with that breathtaking picture. That day I looked over that picture at least a million times to make sure it was engrained into my brain.  I never wanted to forget it again, my mother nor that red sweater. And because of that, every time I think of my mother that’s the first picture that pops into my mind.

As time went on, I could no longer remember what she sounded like.

I could no longer remember what her habits were, and I no longer remembered her pet peeves.

But because of that photo of her in that red sweater I’d always remember what she looked like at her best.

It had been 13 years since my mother’s passing when my grandmother just happened to ask me to help her clear out some things from her house. We were going through the heaps of old things she had to see what she wanted to keep and throw out. Pile by pile we’d gone through the boxes until, I stumbled into a bin dedicated to my late mother’s things, which my grandmother kept for herself.

Documents, jewelry and a few photos I’ve already had copies of were all I saw, until I lifted my late mother’s old jewelry container because I’d felt something else in the huge bin. At first glance the thing seemed to simply be a dinged, red cloth of some sort and I nearly threw it out as trash, but it slipped from my hand just as I went to pick it up. That was when the cloth came undone, revealing itself to be a sweater, and as curiosity had the best of me…I opened it.

Realization then hit me. That was “the” sweater.

Thinking back to how hard my grandmother took my mother’s death, I’d refused to cry in fear of causing her to relive the hurt my mother’s death caused. However, my grandmother walked out the room just when I found it and my heart couldn’t help the tear that slipped.  

I took my time looking at that sweater, viewing how all those years had some toll on the article of clothing. It still had the same crimson color, like in the picture, but it had acquired a slight stench to it, as clothes did when they’re tucked away for so long.  

When my grandmother re-entered the room, she’d seen me eyeing the sweater and told me how it was my mother’s favorite sweater, but after my mother had gained a bit too much weight, she’d given it to her. My grandmother then said she’d never gotten around to wearing it and decided to just add it with my late mother’s things instead.

Following the information she shared, she had paused for a bit and turned to me asking if I’d like to have it.

I remember looking back at the sweater, and how it seemed to have almost lost its sparkle in a way, despite only looking a little beaten up. At that time, I recalled to mind the picture of my mother wearing it and remembered how the sweater looked just as striking as my mother, when she wore it. I’d then thought about taking it for a little bit, but it was after careful thought, I ultimately decided against it.

Because, in that moment it understood that the sweater only looked that breathtaking in the picture because it was my mother who was wearing it.

I knew that no matter how nice it may have looked on me, I’d never view it to the standard in which my mother wore it because only she could make things seem better than they, actually were.

Only she had the power to bring the things around her to life.

Even the clothes she’d wear.