1992, Athens, Ohio.

My dad, eighteen, on the sofa.

My grandma appears, magazine in her hands,

pages full of knit patterns.

“Which design is your favorite?” she asks.

Their eyes travel over anchors and varying colors.

“This one!” he says, pointing at a white sweater marked with an anchor.

“If that’s what you want, I can knit it,”

My grandma promises.

He imagines warmth wrapped around him.

A sweater that feels like home.

1994, Athens, Ohio.

My dad, twenty, is sitting by the Christmas tree.

Gift in his hand.

Wrapping paper flies everywhere.

The sweater appears.

Anchored, white, promised.

He slips it on.

Sleeves hang.

The pattern crawled down to his legs.

The sweater, drowning him like the titanic.

“Too big,” he groans.

Grandma takes it back.

“I can fix it in no time,” she swears.

1996, Athens, Ohio

My dad, twenty two, is sitting by the Christmas tree.

Gift in his hand.

The sweater again.

But smaller now.

A cropped top anchor.

He groans,

gives it back as if history repeats itself.

“Thanks Mom, but maybe I don’t need it anymore.”

2008, Columbus, Ohio.

My dad, thirty eight, is sitting with his wife.

Celebrating their anniversary.

A box arrives.

A gift from his mom.

Inside,

A pillow.

Anchored.

White.

Familiar.

He laughs.

My mom, confused.

“What’s funny, it’s gorgeous!”

My dad, still laughing,

Says

“This was a sweater twenty years ago.”