As I lift it out of the box, the soft material all but slips through my fingers. The creamy beige cashmere is rich and lush, silky and soft, like nothing I’ve ever owned. Instantly, I’m in love.
“I’ll treasure it always!” I squeal as I hold it up to my face, inhaling the fresh outta the shop smell.
I wore it with everything. Magically, it seemed to suit any ensemble I put together. It was always just the right fit and went with me everywhere, a loyal accompaniment.
But as time went on, I began to take advantage of my coveted cardi. I used it as a cushion on hard seats, I let the cat curl up on it during lazy afternoon naps, slept in it on cold nights and wrapped it ‘round me while sitting on salty sand before fiery flames.
The smells and smudges of a life well lived began to take their toll. My beautiful cashmere sweater now mimicked a rag doll, crumpled in the corner, its depressed drapery defeated. Neck soiled, cuffs frayed.
Now, when I lift it to my face as I had so long ago, I inhale abuse, neglect. The sad, sour scent of a sorrowful soul. My mind races; I could wash it. I could run it to the drycleaner. I could stitch the cuffs and scrub the neck.
But the truth is, I know it’s no use.
When something is so precious, so delicate, it warrants continuous and consistent respect. A little attention, once in a while, when you can find the time, won’t keep it undamaged or unscathed.
My beloved cardigan is falling away and I am left exposed. Copyright © 2013 The Wrought Writer