The Cardigan Has Returned

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The kitchen floor was cold this morning.

Not winter cold. Nothing dramatic.

Just cold enough that the moment my bare feet touched the floorboards, I stopped halfway across the room and reconsidered several recent decisions.

The kettle was only a few steps away.

I backed up instead.

Maeve, wearing her old cardigan, holds a steaming mug at the cottage kitchen window in the blue-gray morning.

There are times when continuing forward is admirable. There are also times when the floor is cold and your cardigan is hanging near the stairs.

It had been there for most of the summer, overlooked beneath my garden hat and slightly rumpled from disuse. One sleeve had folded itself inward. The collar required a little negotiation.

Still, it was the old cardigan.

I put it on.

This felt correct.

In the left pocket, I found a peppermint wrapped in paper. I have no memory of putting it there. It may have been several months old or several centuries old. Peppermints are difficult to date.

I returned it to the pocket until further evidence presents itself.

Then I made tea and stood by the kitchen window with both hands around the mug.

The cottage was still blue-gray with early light. Steam drifted past my face. Outside, the garden looked green and damp and entirely unconcerned with my wardrobe.

For approximately three hours, the cardigan and I were in complete agreement.

Then the sun reached the kitchen.

I pushed the sleeves above my elbows.

A little later, I opened the door to the garden.

Maeve's cardigan lies forgotten over a wooden kitchen chair in warm afternoon sunlight beside an open garden door. — Maeve’s cardigan lies forgotten over a wooden kitchen chair in warm afternoon sunlight beside an open garden door.

By afternoon, the cottage had warmed so thoroughly that I took the cardigan off and left it over the back of a wooden chair. One sleeve hung nearly to the floor. The other remained trapped between the chair and the table.

It did not look comfortable, but I had work to do.

The warmest part of the day passed with the door open and the cardigan forgotten.

Then the sun went down.

The blue returned to the windows. I rubbed my arms once and went to retrieve the cardigan from its hook.

The hook was empty.

September has apparently introduced a dress code with shifts.

I checked the stairs.

Then the reading chair.

Then the kitchen hook again, in case the cardigan had returned while I was looking elsewhere.

It had not.

I eventually found it exactly where I had left it, over the back of the kitchen chair.

Smokey was asleep on one sleeve.

He had arranged himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had inherited property through perfectly legitimate means. One paw covered the cuff. His chin rested on the elbow.

I pulled gently.

One golden eye opened.

I stopped pulling.

After a brief negotiation, I retrieved approximately three-quarters of the cardigan. I am wearing that portion now.

The remaining quarter is still under cat jurisdiction.