His orange sweater hangs in my wardrobe. The memories of him wearing it fresh in my mind, as fresh as the oranges it looked like.
He bought it at a market on broad street from an old woman who sold hand-knitted jumpers. It was hideous and ugly, but the bright look on his face, the glowing stretch of his smile was enough to make me resign from denying it from him.
He wore it every night before bed.
When we cooked dinner.
When we laid on the couch in each others arms.
When he fell asleep against my chest, head over my heart.
He cherished that sweater like a family loom.
Every time I see orange, I see him in the sweater.
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