The Molly And Sweater

Mr. Gregson burst into the house in the window light. The yellow walls reflected the light from the kitchen where she put her bag down. He stopped and breathed in the still, familiar air.

His fingers brushed her shadowed eyes. It was a long week. Crumpled blankets and pillows were scattered on the living room floor. There was an open sleeve of cookies on the coffee table next to two glasses of water. The picture frame was lying on the carpet where it had fallen a few days ago. A pile of various threads sat on the kitchen table. He felt a little dizzy and forced himself to move.

Tea can help. His shoes scraped the cold wooden boards as he filled the cauldron. His hands were shaking—which they hadn't finished in a week. He mixed a spoonful of honey into the tea, faint metal scratches against the porcelain barely breaking the deafening silence.

Mr. Gregson was sitting in a wooden chair by the kitchen table. It creaked beneath her as she placed her cup next to the purple thread. Reaching forward, she picked up a ball of yarn and brought it to her face. He inhaled its familiar scent—it smelled to him—like freshly picked lavender.

Marie always loved her lavender. The tea cooled in the cup slowly, untouched, as Mr. Gregson wept into the yarn. When the sun went down, there was nothing left to reflect on the yellow walls in the room. The grandfather clock rang seven times, surprising the now silent old man. Mr. Gregson lowered the wire and rose from the edge of the table.

She dumped her cold tea in the sink, changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed. Before turning off the lamp, she ran her hand across the blanket to her right, where she was greeted by nothing but a cold, empty room. Teary-eyed and exhausted from a week's sleep in hospital, Mr Gregson drifted off to sleep, feeling truly alone for the first time in 45 years. The next morning Mr. Gregson rose with the sun. Sunlight warmed him through the open curtains—he had to close them now.

His hand instinctively reached across the bed. Cold. Empty A dull pain knocked the air out of his chest. They were supposed to have a funeral today, but he didn't want it. He thought about just telling the kids to make plans without him, but he knew he would regret it later. She wanted to make sure it was special to her—her Marie.

Mr. Gregson struggled with the blue sweater his wife had knitted for him a year ago and climbed into the kitchen. His hand rubbed his aching back, the stiff muscles reminding him of the hard hospital chair from his partner's time. The old man froze when he entered the kitchen.

Her youngest granddaughter, Molly, sat in front of a pile of yarn, wearing a similar sweater. The teenager smiled when he saw his grandfather. "Hey, grandmas."

Her red hair hung tousled over her shoulders - such a finger-brushing day. The foundation she bought this summer didn't quite suit her arms or neck, but as always, her eyeliner was drawn with perfect wings.

"I couldn't sleep and I thought I was just going to be early. My mom said I could," he explained. "I made room for you." She took the cup from behind the pile of yarn and handed it to her grandfather.

On any other day, Mr. Gregson would have told her to be more careful. She didn't like her 17-year-old grandson driving alone in the snow. But that thought didn't seem to come to mind today.

"Thank you, my dear," she said, taking a cup of delicious white tea.

He sat down and sipped. "Nice sweater." "Come back to you." He reached out and ran his fingers along the thread.

"Was that the yarn for this year's sweaters?" "Of course he was. He just started it, you see." She carefully picked up the thread she had mourned the night before.

"Lovely purple color, isn't it?" "Amazing.

I'm honestly not sure what I'd do without…" he finished, choking on his words. She looked past him confusedly into the living room and continued:

"Well, without another grandmother's sweater." She lifted the tea to her lips and took a long swig as if it were the only thing in the world that could hold back the tears. "Well you have a lot of them."

He forced himself to laugh. He knew that if one of them started crying, no one would stop anytime soon. Molly was not like her older sister Shirley, who always managed to keep her cool. He tapped the handle of his teacup and looked from her to the pile of yarn.

"Which one is your favorite - of the ones he's done to you?" he asked.

Molly pressed a finger to her lips for a moment before answering.

"Probably the one he made me in third grade—red with yellow letters. I was so obsessed with Winnie the Pooh." He got up and went to the living room. Molly quickly picked up the pillows from the floor. "Really.

He was very proud of it," Gregson said. He glanced at the mess in the living room, then immediately looked away. "You kept it everywhere. He had to take it from you when summer came." Molly laughed.

"I wanted to use it as a cover up to the pool." He picked up the picture frame from the floor. After fixing the crooked side table, he put the picture frame back on it. It was a picture of her grandparents on their wedding day. "What was your favorite?"

He said without hesitation, "Rainbow sweater."

"Who was it?" he asked.

"He did this to me long before your child was born. He also made me promise never to use it in front of him."

He smiled slightly as he reached the kitchen. "Still doing it?" He lifted the empty teacup. "Yes please."

After folding the blanket, she placed it on the back of the couch. Everything is back to how it was before the heart attack. "Why couldn't you use it?"

He took two empty water glasses from the coffee table and put them in the sink. "Well, when we married your grandmother, money was cheap. We had a small apartment and we bought a lot of food at customs." "Empty food?" Molly asked, leaning against the counter and holding out her teacup.

"Yes, ma'am, you can get your food cheaper when it's past its expiration date," he said. "Interesting." Suddenly Molly jerked away from the tea, which barely touched her lips. "Hot hot." Grandfather smiled.

“Your grandmother already started a tradition of making me sweaters every year—she started it when we got together. We were about your age.” He held out his hand and nodded at her.

When she laughed, he smiled and continued his story. "I already had four and I think that was enough. So when money was tight, I didn't even mention a new jersey. He mixed a spoonful of honey into the tea and then slid the jar of honey against the counter.

"So why was money so tight?" he asked. “We were both working full-time, but we were barely making ends meet. He worked in the restaurant below our apartment until almost ten every night, and I went to work at five the next morning.”

They went back to the table. Mr. Gregson used the edge of the table to lower himself into a wooden chair. Molly reached out to help, but Mr. Gregson waved her away.away.

"We usually haven't seen each other since eleven, except for a few hours during lunch breaks when I stopped at a restaurant." The grandson rested his chin on his hand and waited.

“Well, you see, she actually got up at nine and spent the last hour every night knitting me a sweater. But you see, she didn't want to buy yarn when we needed money for other things; so he took his sweaters and pressed them. She used the yarn for me." She imagined Marie knitting in the dim apartment, careful not to disturb her sleep. "Oh, it's so sweet! But why didn't he let you use it?"

"As you know, I was a little taller than your grandmother, so she used two sweaters, a scarf, and a knitted hat left at the restaurant to make me this sweater. The yarn was different colors and different sizes, and she hated the how it turned out. Mr. Gregson looked lovingly at the pile of colorful thread on the table. He felt a lump in his throat begin to grow, but pushed it down with another sip.

"When she gave it to me I almost melted. I was speechless. I couldn't believe she had time to knit me another one. She was always so tired from work. She went back to the table and took a ball of yarn and pressed it to her lips. He closed his eyes. "That night he thought I didn't say anything because I hated it."

A tear rolled down her cheek. Similar tears streamed down Molly's chin and down the neck of her sweater. "He tried to take it back and say he was sorry, but I just gave him a big kiss. I told him how much it meant to me—how much I loved him. However, as much as I loved that ugly sweater—I won't lie , it was an ugly time..." he smiled, "he never let me wear it." "Do you still have it?" "I. Wait.”

He lowered the wire and shuffled faster than Molly had seen her grandfather move for a long time, sliding his hands along the walls of the hallway. Mr. Gregson returned to the kitchen and placed the sweater on the table with trembling hands. Molly quietly ran her fingers over the strands until a sob broke out of her. Mr. Gregson stepped closer and put his arm around his grandson. She turned to him and screamed into his chest. Tears streamed down his face and his body trembled more than usual. His chest felt hollow and as if someone was choking him. Only deep breaths broke the silence.

After a few minutes, Molly swallowed her pain and looked up at him. "What if…" he sniffed and took a few quick breaths, "what if we all wore our favorite sweaters to the funeral?" He knew exactly who he would choose. "I would really like that." He nodded. "I think he would like it too." ***

A week later, Mr. Gregson woke up alone in his bed. It was time to say goodbye for good, but she knew she had to say goodbye to him every morning for the rest of her life. Mr. Gregson combed the rest of his hair and washed his face with cold water. She put on dress pants, an undershirt, and then carefully pulled out a rainbow sweater from the drawer. He tried to drop it over his head, but ended up with his hands in his sleeves. He looked at himself in the mirror.

"Everybody thinks it's the ugliest sweater they've ever seen," he told Marie, even though she wasn't there. "But I think it's the nicest I've ever worn." He patted the empty spot on the bed and went to the front door.