Berry And Periwinkle

What happened to all
the cable-knit sweaters
you got as gifts for birthdays
and Christmas — 

thick as shields and warm
as the wood-stove-hot garage
where your father worked on cars
and lawnmowers, readying them
for spring

You outgrew far more than one
but there are
one or two in periwinkle
and berry-blood red
you keep to wear home
now and then 
when the weather is ripe
for such a gesture — 

armor of a sort and see as well
how your mother’s face lights up
when she apparently recognizes
her own work
on the person of the person
she tries to think of as her son 

For a minute she looks past 
berry or periwinkle
to ask if you still have
the one in oatmeal Irish wool
you loved so much and you tell her
it’s at home
and you’ll wear it next time

although it’s been decades
and the sweater
is long ago donated

you don’t feel bad
about lying to your mother
do you
not like this

It’s not the first time
not going to be the last
until it is the last time
and you must decide
which sweater to wear
that day