Dad’s Cardigan
It has taken a few years but I have started to wear the olive green cardigan stashed away in the spare room’s chest of drawers.
I bought the cardigan for my Dad – for a birthday most likely, or one Father’s Day. Shirts, jumpers and cardigans, those were the things I would get him.
He’d been in the men’s clothing business for decades which, back in the day, meant we didn’t give him clothes for a gift. He made shirts so why would you buy him one? That was the logic at the time.
Then it dawned on me, a decade after his retirement, that actually he loved clothes – that’s why he’d got into the business – so surely this was exactly the thing he’d like to find under the Christmas tree or beside his birthday cake. I tried it once, his face lit up, so I kept on doing it for years.
When he died in 2017, my mother and I sorted through his clothes and there were things that were hard to let go of. So we didn’t. There’s a summer hat in the wardrobe still, and an ancient burgundy bowtie (proper one you tie yourself, not one of those foolish things on elastic) in a drawer, and sons and sons-in-law have the odd shirt and jacket.
And this good wool cardigan with pockets and five big buttons, which I probably chose for Dad because it reminded me of the pictures in “Grandpa’s Cardigan”, New Zealand writer Joy Watson’s fabulous picture book, much loved by all at our place.
Though unlike the one in the story, Dad’s cardigan was not in need of mending. It is still in tremendously good nick, though he’d worn it plenty. The first winter after he died, I reached for it but couldn’t bring myself to wear it. Same the next year.
And then my mother died, and I put one of her jerseys – a pale green one she’d knitted herself – into the drawer with Dad’s cardigan. Not because I thought I’d ever wear her jersey, but because it was one of the things I couldn’t let go of, so I didn’t. Tucked them both away with other woolly things that did get worn, so I’d see them both regularly, even if they didn’t get a turn.
And then a few weeks ago, with my usual round-the-house jumpers in the wash, I looked at Dad’s cardigan and realised it didn’t make me sad to see it without him in it anymore. And when I put it on, I didn’t feel like an interloper, and it felt like a hug.
Father’s Day can be tricky for people who don’t have a dad to celebrate. Some people never had a dad, or don’t have the kind of dad you’d make a card for. Or maybe you had a pretty great dad, but he’s not around anymore.
Special love to those whose fathers have died since the last Father’s Day. That year of “firsts” when you’ve lost a parent – first Christmas, first birthdays (theirs and yours), first time you do a family gathering without them? Those are hard. You are daily aware of their absence but it can feel overwhelming when there is literally a gap at the dinner table.
Grief feels sharp at times, especially in the beginning. Like a stab, or a punch that makes it hard to breathe. But seven years later, it feels softer. Soft as an olive green cardigan made of wool, to last a long time.