On days like this when the wind is chill and the sun seldom peeks through the clouds, I wrap myself in a shabby cotton sweater. I am a butterfly in a blue cocoon, safe from the world and harm.
It’s an odd looking sweater, with snaps as opposed to buttons, and has always been misshapen, a loose mess. I bought it years ago, off a Macy’s sale rack for next to nothing. It’s lightweight and not very warm, but for some reason its scent brings to mind that of an old friend hugging me. There are random holes in it from snagging it on a rose bush or the huge thorns on the lemon tree, yet I cannot part with it.
When I need solace, I go in search of the sweater. Because it is so old I tend to throw it off when the temperatures rise, leaving it in…
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