By: Phoebe Huang

I sit silently, winded up into a small sphere in a bamboo drawer. Among me are a sewing needle, browned metal scissors, crochet hooks, and a few dried-out fabric markers. I have been waiting for ages, to see light again, to smell anything but dust, rust, and bamboo, to be unwound again and made into something treasured.

Wrinkled and specked hands and yellowed nails reach into my cabinet. Oh, how lovely! I finally smell the redwood table and black tea brewing. I finally smell hope.

I am taken away from my prison.

I am set on a familiar counter, which once had the smell of wooden polish and pine needles. Right of me, I see shredded shavings of wood. Left of me, I see screws that are nearly about to fall out.

Everything feels like it’s on the brink of collapse.

The rough hands possess a smell of dead skin and dirt, reminding me of the withering potted plant on the creaky window sill that I used to rest on. The hands pull the string of mine and thread the rusty sewing needle through me. I am shaking, and so are the hands.

My string is then stretched out, and cut in fifths. The first fifth of me is sowed into a square pattern. Over, then under, over then under. The rough hands gently handle me. I can feel hot breath on my skin. My other fifths are also sewn into square patterns, each possessing a different shape.

I dwell on my past. I dwell on the happiness I had when I was sewn into her first masterpiece, now lying in a corner, on the collapsing floorboards, forgotten. But now, I am experiencing the exhilaration of being wanted and delicately sewn into her next masterpiece. My color might be faded, my skin may be shriveled and parched, but I can still be made into treasure.

As my fifths are being sewn together,

The wizened hands let go of me.

The table shakes.

Every

thing

collapses.

. . .

It’s 8:06 A.M, and school’s in 24 minutes. It wasn’t my fault my alarm broke. Mom yells at me to speed up. I rummage through my closet for something to wear. I haven’t washed my clothes in 2 weeks, my socks are stinky, my pants are covered in dry sweat, and my shirts are covered with dirt.

Everything is too small for me or ripped. I go to my last resort, which is the top shelf of my closet, which always has something random on it. Nothing is visible, so I peek in the corner. Sitting there is a burgundy box with bronze lining.

I opened the box.

There’s nothing inside.

I close the box and put it back into the corner. But before I get to do that, I see something else rummaged in there. It looks like a piece of cloth. It’s covered with dust, so I use two fingers to quickly pick it up to minimize the amount of dirt that gets on my fingers. It’s a crimson cardigan that’s badly sewn, one sleeve looks like it’s about to fall off. It smells familiar… It smells of bamboo and redwood and Grammy’s favorite tea … It smells of the table in the garage that used to belong to my great-grandmother. I shake the dust off. The texture of the cardigan feels warm and comfortable on my skin. This will do, although it’s definitely a little bit oversized. It’s perfectly clean without the dust.

I put on a slightly clean shirt and toss the cardigan over it. I put on an embarrassing plaid dress that can barely fit me anymore. I look fine. The cardigan fixed it all. The cardigan feels gentle on my skin and radiates warmth.

It has become my favorite cardigan.

….

It was my last time seeing her. She was moving to Alabama for the rest of her life. She was my best friend since we were in kindergarten. It was 12 years of friendship. I’m now a frail grandma with no objective in life except to keep myself and my garden alive.

I’m lying in our garden, deep in the fresh green grass. The dew wets through my clothes. I move to the rocking chair and stare into our vast garden. If only she was here to see how all the seeds we planted together grew into this beautiful sight.

But the weeds next to the fence are adding imperfection, so I walk over to pick them out. But before that, I spot something red behind a rose bush. I force my way between the rose bush and a fence and retrieve the object. It is covered in dry bits of dirt and rose petals, so I dust it off.

It’s a burgundy cardigan

Letters sown onto it say Daisy Spesnova. It’s hers.

So I sow cardigans for the rest of my life.

I gave ones of different colors to my family

I left Daisy’s cardigan in a mulberry box with some leftover seeds and forget-me-nots.

I leave a marsala-red cardigan in a rose gold box waiting for its next owner