The Blue Sweater by Marianne Peel  

Two days before her birthday
I make my annual pilgrimage to Sears Department Store.
There I will find a cardigan for my grandmother, for my Nana.
A soft pastel of a garment.  Cable-stitched.  Pearl buttons.
I reject the coffee brown, the navy blue,
the show-no-stains black.  

A hard-scrapple Lithuanian, she pressed
a heavy iron to men’s button-down shirts
in the alley factory in Shanandoah.
An Appalachian sweat shop
where she stripped down
to a narrow-strapped sundress
blooming with Sweet Williams.
But in the evening, she sought
the comfort of a sweater.  Something
to keep the December parlor warmer.
Hydrangea blue. 
Like her eyes.  

The sweater unraveled
between her ninety-fifth and ninety-six birthday.
Each thread un-darnable.
She could always repair anything.
Said crocheting helped her hands.
Kept her arthritis over there, across the room.
That constant, uninvited guest.  

The unraveling began at the cuff,
where butter from the pierogies and onions
had dribbled down her wrist.  That butter ‘
had oozed in between the mile-a-minute stitch, ‘
her personal trademark.   

The shoulder, too, came unspooled. 
That spot where her great-granddaughter
snuggled in and spit up the last of the milk.
The yarn on her shoulder still pressed flat
from the baby’s nuzzle.  

The sweater molted in spring.
‘The spaces between the stitches
filled with powdered sugar from the kolachi. 
She reminded me she could always satisfy her sweet tooth
by just licking the dust of sugar off her collar.  

On the forearms of the sweater,
the grease from Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips.
Mind you, she never ordered a piece of fish, or even fries.
She’d whisper to the pimply-faced boys
scooping cod out of the fryer
that all she really wanted was the batter
that crumpled from the cod.
He’d shovel a whole plate of fish batter crumbs
onto a platter, hand it to her saying,
No charge, Ma’am.
And he would wink at her.  

On her left side, where her breast used to be,
a splotch of Estee Lauder White Linen perfume.
Just for fancy occasions, she’d say. Not for
going down to the auction in Frackville.
Not for playing cards for pennies.
But for church, yes indeed. 
The fragrance co-mingled with her rosary. 
She told me the Virgin Mary herself ‘
came to her once, in a dream.  Told her
she never fancied the musty aroma of incense. 
That she wanted to borrow my Nana’s White Linen
to blot out the stench of the holy incense.  

And on the collar of her sweater, ‘
Geranium Red Royal lipstick. A kiss of a color. 
Always applied in the kitchen,
in a mirror etched with pansies.  

When she no longer remembered my name,
I unraveled that whole sweater.
Wound the yarn into a sturdy ball.
Crocheted a blanket that holds her warmth
on my lap, around my shoulders.  
An immortal, infinite embrace.