Green Sweater
The sweater is light green with a white, wool collar.
It is made from cotton and has tattered sleeves,
worn from use.
When I stretch the sweater over my head
and pull it over my shoulders,
it is oversized and engulfs my body.
It falls over my wobbly knees,
and extends past my wrists.
Its material grazes and scrapes my skin.
This sweater was not meant for my body.
It scratches me and begs to be released.
I feel like a child again,
playing dress up in my father’s closet.
I stare into the mirror until my image is warped,
and imagine the green sweater on the body it belongs to.
He lounges on the couch with a coffee mug in hand.
He laughs and pretends to watch the television,
but steals glances at my mother across the kitchen.
His smile is full and his eyes are no longer dull.
The sweater fits his body entirely.
It reaches his waist,
and stops exactly at his wrists.
When I look in the mirror and imagine my father in his sweater,
his face becomes a blur.