This morning I washed the last  
of the winter sweaters, laid them   

flat to dry in the sun. One, my mother 
made for me when I was a 6th grader—  

always making things big enough 
for us to grow into. Over six decades ago 
 
I chose pattern and colors 
with her and even today wouldn’t  

change a thing. Next to it, a vest  
I made my younger son, scrimping  

bits of yarn—the reason his sweaters 
tended toward stripes. His sons   

now wear the vest—warm wool 
and buttons to challenge toddler  
 
dexterity. How unlike life 
are the paper patterns we followed—  

rows marching single file, their future 
laid plain from beginning to end.  

My mother, though, didn’t live  
to the end of her row and couldn’t  

have imagined I’d dry her knits 
and purls with mine under this  

Kentucky sun. I touch the clean yarn, 
still moist, and consider life’s  

finite rows. Might mine end 
before next winter or will I be  

charmed with another chance 
to warm this aging body   

with the love plied into the wool 
of my 6th-grade sweater?