A Letter To My Husband’s Sweater (That He Tried To Throw Away.)


Dear Husband’s Sweater,

Did you know it was your owner’s birthday today? I noticed you didn’t get him a card or even give him a high five when he passed you on his way to work. I’m thinking that you got wind of his plan. Yes, yes…it’s true. What you heard is true. He almost threw you away. Well, you may have known. Maybe that is the reasoning behind your melancholy face lately? Could you sense the trash can getting closer to your merino wool face last week? It really got close. LUCKY FOR YOU, I stopped him before you fell. (You can thank me later. I really like Chai Tea Frappucinos with skim milk and no whip. And those salted chocolate covered almonds from Starbucks.)

Why did he want to throw you away?

You have some holes in you. And you are getting quite old. You sat in storage for a while last year when we were in between houses. You might have thought one of us was tickling you, but I’m thinking it was either a moth having a feast or a mouse have a treat. Either way, it wasn’t us and it made a hole in you. I know, I know. I can imagine the hurt you are feeling right now. The shock must be so much to bear. First the trash can possibility and now the holes because of mice.

I just can’t let him do it, though. I can’t.

I want to keep you forever.

He chose you with care to go on a special trip with us almost 15 years ago. He picked YOU! I didn’t know about the trip at the time. When he chose you from the closet and placed you carefully into his suitcase, I had no idea that it was happening. We weren’t married yet. We didn’t take trips together yet. Alone. He discussed it with my parents, though, and they gave their blessing. They said they were fine with us going to visit your family in Tennessee.

So, in my suitcase, I packed shorts. It was April in Tennessee. My mom and your owner, Chris, insisted that I pack a coat and sweaters.

I resisted.

I scoffed.

I didn’t want to pack sweaters.

Somehow sweaters got into my suitcase and we set off for the airport.

(Did you overhear me from inside Chris’s suitcase? I’m so embarrassed…)

As we got closer to the airport, Chris handed me a card. It had a lot of sweet words on one side saying how happy he was that we were going to visit his grandparents in Tennessee.

And then I flipped it over.

“Except…we aren’t going to Tennessee. We are going to Paris.”

I have covered this little story before here on my blog, so I won’t go into all of the details. I can tell you, though, that I was in complete shock and my stomach took a hit.

Many hours later, we were there.

And you were there.

He chose you. He chose your brown merino wool face to be with us during that trip. The trip that would be the beginning of my life as his wife.

He wasn’t wearing you when he asked me to marry him, but you were with us in so many spots throughout the city.

The Arc de Triomphe.

Near the Seine.
And near the most romantic place of all- the Chrysler-Jeep dealership.

You are just tied to too many happy thoughts, minus the trip up the Eiffel Tower when I had horrible stomach cramps because I was still completely in shock and unbelievably nervous and irrationally afraid that I didn’t know French.

I can’t bear to part with something that reminds me of so much happy. Happiness is not the only thing I think of when I see you.

You remind me of surprises.

You remind me of suspense.

You remind me of fun.

You remind me of hope.

You remind me of effort.

You remind me of commitment.

You remind of loyalty.

You remind me of sweetness.

You remind me of fruit stands.

You remind me of French croissants with chocolate in them.

You remind me of magic.

You remind me of mystery.

You remind me of youth.

You remind me of stomach cramps. (Well,  you do.)

You remind me of my engagement ring.

You remind me of grace.

Most of all, you remind me of love.

So, you are sticking with me, holes and all. Life and marriage can be hard on us at times, just like those mice and moths. The beauty remains, though. The effort is worth it. The reward is priceless.

You are mine.


P.S. Happy birthday, Chris! I love you!


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