The two scarves you knitted for me are still hanging on the rack on my wall. I was never a scarf person so I rarely wore except for the times that you were here. I've bought many scarves since then. It's been cold and windy and I like sweeping them around my shoulders and neck. Still, the ones you made keep me the most warm. Even though things are different now and we're no longer together, I remember that you made them because I was always complaining about the bleak and cold Sacramento winters and you wanted me to stay warm: I get sick easy.
The first scarf is very long. Your first attempt, the gray one. The threads are loose and I try not to pull too hard when I knot it because I'm afraid the knitting will just separate completely. The second one, the black one is just right and I can wrap it tighter. My shoulders have thinned since you saw me last time, so the scarves hang a bit looser around my frame than you remember if you remember how they look on me at all. When I go for coffee in the morning at the donut shop across the street from my home or walk to Target to pick up my film negatives, they go with me too. I spilled a drop of coffee on the gray one while reaching over to turn a page in my notebook. It pained me enough that the stain stayed on my mind for the entire the afternoon and I couldn't stop looking even though no one will ever notice. I will probably forget where it landed on by tomorrow afternoon.
These two things are the warmest things in my entire wardrobe. But after realizing this, I probably won't have the heart to wear them anymore because they're just shells of what they use to mean so I will be put them back on the rack where they will make my blue walls seem warmer than really are.