My alliance with sweaters started long ago, before I can even spell my name or count to ten or distinguish purple from a spectrum of reds. I can measure it outside the bonds of academic marks. I wore sweaters long before I can feed myself.
The first sweater of my childhood memory was one that was knitted, orange and blue with cute little black buttons on the chest as an accent. It was a little itchy but very very warm. I liked it so much that I wore them almost every night, as I cheer over the moon or the ceilings of my old bedroom, which was the coldest room in the house. It kept me warm. It protected me, hugging me just the way I like it.
But that sweater caught my earrings too often with its woolen threads. When I woke up I'd find myself pulling my earring out of the mess and as a result, the thread loosened. I ruined it, and I was only three.
Since then I asked my mom for more sweater and refuse to wear jackets. I didn't care if they were itchy or soft, because I felt like it protected me. From the haunting cold, ghosts under my bed, monsters in the cabinet, and the thoughts of the stars collapsing to the ground and then the nights went colder, untouched.
Sweater and winter, perfect match. When winter comes I'd laundry all my sweater by myself and put them in order by their thickness. Thin, medium, thick, super thick, medium. So that I can caress them over. From top to bottom and feel myself slipping away to the years that I've passed, or the years that passed me.
In winter, they'd smell like cloves and coffee beans, and maybe a little cinnamon and jasmine. That's because I go the coffee shop a lot in winter. Inhaling crisp air and letting sun leaking its light through my flesh and into my bones on the way, running my fingers on the fabrics. Just because.
They might be hidden under coats and capes, but nothing I'd rather cover myself with than its warmth. Its steady warmth.
My alliance with sweaters started long ago, and it won't end soon.