Emma often asks about the woman who knitted the cardigan—what she liked to cook, whether she laughed, and if she would have liked her. I answer with stories: the warmth of my grandmother’s hands, the hum of her voice as she worked, the quiet kindness in her eyes. Each time the cardigan settles around Emma’s shoulders, these stories feel richer, as though the fabric itself helps lift memory into the room.
The cardigan has become a bridge spanning years and lives—linking my grandmother, myself, and my daughter. Though the three of us never stood together, we meet each time the garment is worn. Its stitches carry history, its color holds affection, and its soft weight conveys a message that real love does not vanish with changing circumstances.
Love, like the cardigan, waits with patience. It folds itself neatly, content to rest in darkness until someone finally reaches for it. And when uncovered, it reveals that tenderness can travel across generations, transforming an ordinary object into a quiet vessel of connection, memory, and enduring care.
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