I wish you could see him. In the flesh preferably so that you could really see his joy. But a photo would do, too, if I knew how to reach you. I asked the woman behind the counter if she knew where the sweater had come from but she shrugged and said she didn’t.
I hadn’t meant to go into the shop at all. The kids were on holiday from school and that morning we needed something to do, so I concocted a list of errands and we set off for a walk around the neighbourhood. Cinnamon and baking powder at the health food shop. Fish from the fishmonger. A vegetable or two from the green grocer. Maybe a muffin to share or some other treat from the bakery. And there are a couple of thrift shops to pass along the way – the kind where all the proceeds go to charity and the staff are volunteers – so I thought we might pop in and consider the bookshelves. (Genetic condition – I will not apologize.)
But before we made it to the books, we spotted the baskets outside on the sidewalk. Two great big picnic baskets full of Shetland handknit gorgeousness. Shawls and hats and scarves and pullovers and all sorts of bits and pieces in all sorts of glorious colours. We had to look.
And we weren’t the only ones. Others had stopped, too, and were sorting through the lovelies. Everyone who walked past wanted to touch the colours, to hold onto that warmth and softness.
Your work is amazing. So many colours and combinations. And sizes, too. Did you knit these things with specific people in mind? Or maybe you knit for the joy of knitting, choosing colours and patterns just because they suit your fancy. It all looks new, never worn. Like you carefully crafted and finished each piece, casting off and weaving in all the stray ends and then folded it and put it away. Maybe you kept them all in these baskets, waiting for the grandkids to come by for a visit. Take a look. Choose what you like. Blue? Green? Something earthy? Something striped? Maybe a hat this time? Maybe you knit because you’ve always knit.
I wonder how your baskets ended up at the charity shop. Did you drop them off yourself? Have the grandkids grown past these sizes? But some of these pieces were adult sizes, too, so maybe these are the ones that never seem to find a home. Or maybe it’s you. Maybe you were leaving your home, moving on elsewhere. Downsizing or moving to a retirement home. A care home. Maybe there just isn’t space any more.
I wanted to buy something for each of us. Beangirl and I tried on shawls and scarves and tried to narrow it down, tried to make up our wool-greedy minds. In the end, I knew I only had so much money in my pocket for the groceries and we just couldn’t decide. But Blue could. He found a perfect pullover. Brown and orange and white and yellow. Fairisle striped with corrugated ribbing. Cosy and snug and just big enough that he’ll wear it through next winter, too. And, with good wool like this, his little brother will wear it after him, too.
Of course, he wore it home from the shop. And he’s worn it every day since. He calls it his Reepicheep sweater in honour of the Narnian mouse who is his current hero. He straps his belt right on top with his wooden sword and scabbard and then asks me to tie his cardboard mouse mask firmly over his ears. Six years old is a marvellous thing.
On Saturday morning, we climbed a hill and Reepicheep came along, too. The sweater matched the muted heather and the winter-dried grasses that rustled in the wind. The day was bright but the wind was cold and I was glad that he was well insulated. He told me that in his sweater he could have stayed on that hill all day. And maybe even into the night. If I let him.
A brave mouse in the wilderness. 
I wish that you could have seen him. Standing on that April hill in his beloved new sweater, with all your careful stitches. It was a gift that you gave us, a moment that you crafted without knowing it, without knowing him. And it was beautiful. Thank you for that.
