Mom's Blue Sweater
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My most precious item, this blue sweater,
Handed down to me from my mother.
Bright, bold, boisterous,
1985.
She gave it to me the summer before high school,
Her clothes an inspiring mix
Of herself and Molly Ringwald.
A love for the 80s and highlighter yellow.
A desperate need to fit in
And stand out at the same time.
This fuzzy blue sweater means more to me than
Any other slouchy beige sweater piled
In the heap of my closet.
This one gets a hanger.
Its pockets hold the secrets my mom never told me.
Zipped shut like her lips,
Never letting them escape
In fear they would taint my childhood.
Its scent belongs to the lonely kid my mom was
After her parents’ divorce.
A dusty room, vinyl records, abandoned dolls.
Microwave dinners in front of the TV.
Its pockets hold the secrets my mom never told me.
Zipped shut like her lips.
Our trip to the beach rests inside the collar.
Just me. Just Mom.
I had never seen her smile that wide
And mean it.
Her soft touch sits on its blue sleeve,
Dragging me along the edge of the ocean,
Excited, like she was a little girl again.
Its pockets hold the secrets my mom never told me.
Zipped shut like her lips.
I take her sweater with me whenever I leave the house
So she doesn’t have to worry I’ll forget about her.
The bright, bold, boisterous blue sweater,
A constant reminder of my mom’s presence
As I create my own secrets.
And zip them inside the pockets.