The Story of a Sweater

 

I remember my Grandfather as a large man, tall with a slow, loping stride. I remember him with a wide grin and long arms, a man with many books on shelves I was too short to reach.  He died when I was 18, the spring of my freshman year at college. A few months before he died I rode the bus from school in Virginia to my grandparents' home in Columbia, South Carolina. Even though cancer had weakened him, he still seemed big to me, I still felt small in his arms. 

Over fifteen years later, I was back at that house, this time to spend time with my Grandmother over a long winter weekend. It was bizarrely cold for South Carolina and Grandmother's fuse box quit on us.  All the lights in the house stopped working, the heat stopped working, but a few random outlets and the stove and fridge continued to function, like some Southern angel knew you couldn't rob us of the kitchen on top of everything else.  While my uncles made calls to electricians, I made trips to Lowe's for firewood and Bojangles for biscuits. On my way to the house I'd stopped at the grocery store for soup ingredients as I was determined to stock Grandmother's freezer with soup.  So with the fridge and the stove being the only functioning appliances in the house, we ended up spending the majority of the weekend in the kitchen, Grandmother sitting at the table wearing Grandfather's sweater and me by the stove making batches of soup. We'd play Scrabble and argue over the rules and we'd talk about my work, my dog, my boyfriend, and whether or not I had enough quilts at my house. 

I picked up an extension cord at Lowe's and at night I'd run the extension cord from the functioning kitchen outlet up the stairs to her room where she had a space heater. We'd run that for a few hours tow arm up her room and then shut it off when we went to bed, both of us a little gun-shy about the safety of the outlets at that point. "Let's not burn the house down," she said. I'd snuggle into my bed under a pile of quilts and come morning I'd walk downstairs wrapped in blankets to start the coffee before going back upstairs to Grandmother's room.  On that first cold morning she told me to get in bed with her as soon as she saw me not wearing any socks, it was too cold to not be wearing socks.  I laughed and got in bed and we talked for a few minutes.  The only other time I remember being in bed with my Grandmother was soon after my Grandfather died.  I spent my spring break with Grandmother that year and I have very few memories of that week, we were both so sad.  One afternoon I found her crying, sitting on their bed, and I went and sat beside her and cried, too. Then we took a nap, one of those sad naps where you sleep so deeply it feels like your heart just turns off for a while. 

After the power was restored our weekend was spent discussing the power having gone out, and what an adventure that was.  The mornings were still chilly and, seeing me rub my arms, Grandmother insisted I put on Grandfather's sweater. It was a London Fog wool blend, the kind you can tell used to be very scratchy but through diligent wearing had been worn thin and soft. It was grey and blue with buttons so weathered I couldn't tell their original color. And as I slipped my arms inside, I expected this sweater to swallow me, this sweater of this larger-than-life, grinning marvel of a man. But it didn't. It fit me just fine, the arms a little long, but fine. Ah, I thought, so Grandfather was a normal human size, I suppose. Just the size of a man. And now my shoulders aren't that much smaller than his. 

Despite our adventure, Grandmother was still Grandmother and I was still me, so by the end of the trip I'd grown testy. I loved her but our relationship was sometimes hard and sharp. We had a stupid fight when I left, one of those idiotic rows you immediately regret. Though we forgave one another by the time I drove away, gave hugs and kisses and exchanged I love yous, I still felt awful for that ugly tension at the end of my visit.  Grandmother never brought up that argument. When she spoke of our weekend of powerless cold, the way I filled the house with smoke the first time I started a fire, the way I packed her freezer with soup, the way we went to Bojangles for biscuits and coffee to warm up, she only described it as a grand adventure. And a few weeks after I got home I received a box with my address written in her perfect, Grandmotherly script. In the box was Grandfather's sweater and $5 to buy myself a lipstick. 

I don't wear the sweater often but it's a good Saturday sweater. A sweater for bitter cold. And, like Grandmother, I hang it in my closet when I'm not wearing it. I see it everyday. I see Grandfather, still large and long-armed, asking me if I want to hear a joke. And I see Grandmother, bent over her Scrabble tiles at her kitchen table while I stir the soup. I miss them. I wish they'd known their great-grandson. But I hold him and watch his tiny hand grab these weathered buttons, and they feel close.