The Wooly Sweater

The wooly sweater was made of thin red, brown and gold threads. It was on a mannequin in the attic, with empty birdcages, boxes of shoes and old books and magazines. The mannequin wasn't one of those dress-makers types, but had come from a storefront somewhere. The sweater was all she wore, and it looked a little obscene. I named her Cancer, for her lack of hair. Sometimes she would sing, softly, but loud enough for me to hear from my bedroom. Sometimes I'd go up and sing with her. At some point we began talking, telling each other stories from our respective worlds. She told me of the things she'd seen while standing in the storefront, strange things, things that regular people like myself missed. I guess she thought my stories strange as well, of growing up and moving about on my own. She wanted to be able to do that. To walk, to move through the crowds, to experience life as I knew it.

"But you don't feel pain", I said. "You stand on your feet forever and never tire. You're the one who has it good. Believe me, you don't want to know the things I know. Not first-hand, anyway."

"I've never tasted food, or held a baby, or made love. Wouldn't it be worth the small price to have these things?"

"It's not a small price, and you pay constantly."

We began to drift apart after that conversation. Eventually, she stopped singing. I stopped going up into the attic years ago, now, but I know that she's still there. Covered in dust, I guess, but still there. I won't be here much longer, but unless someone moves her, she'll be there for a hundred years.