A Loose Thread on His Sweater

The thread on his sweater
unraveled at the center of his chest

it was a simple move on my part
I reached for it, and pulled slightly.
I thought I could tie it safely in a knot
and keep it from separating further
but with every little tug it untangled, 
and the thread grew longer while 
the hole in the sweater grew larger.

I should have stopped
but I couldn’t help myself
the hours of work that went into
this garment I quickly
unraveled in seconds.

I heard a noise deep in his throat

like a whimpering gasp.
“The sweater,” he said, 
“was a gift from my mother.”

She sent it for his birthday
before she took her last breath
and it was his favorite 
he wore it when he was
sad, or when the seasons
changed, or her birthday passed.

Now here I was destroying
what he valued most
wrecking it with every pull.

I should have stopped
taken it to an experienced knitter
have it fixed, but like a kitten with a piece of yarn
I used both hands to find the end of that strand,
now a pile of royal blue fiber on the sidewalk.

Maybe at another time
our eyes will meet
and we will laugh about today

but how can he feel affection

for a stranger who destroyed his sweater
on a public street while waiting for a bus
early in September?