The sweater waits in a quiet drawer,
soft as a winter that forgot the sun.
Its scent, dust, pine walls, a hint of rain...
brings back a girl who never rushed her seasons.
She used to wipe her sweaty palms on it,
press her cheek to its wool,
Or sometimes simply smell the freshness in winter morning…
After so many seasons, it is still carrying warmth the way small hands
carry secrets- clumsy, but tender.
Now she lives where streets don't echo,
where trains speak louder than sparrows,
Where winter is just deadlines and trips..
where sweaters are just clothes
and not love stitched in yarn.
Still, on nights the moon feels far,
she breathes in the old smell again,
and somewhere inside her ribs
a tiny version of herself curls up,
reclaiming the wool like a story,
Peace and sorrow meeting quietly in her heart - at the same time..
She forgets she ever outgrew
the town that first taught her warmth.
The sweater always holds a piece of herself when she needed that little girl…
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