The Gray Sweater

“I guess so!” I use to say with an obvious bothered tone. My little sister Melissa, three years younger than I, always asked to borrow my clothes. I’d let her, but I wasn’t happy about it, and she knew it. Sure, I recognized that she had nothing “in style” to wear, at least I knew I never wanted to borrow anything of hers. Still, my 17-year-old selfish side was really sick of sharing. I was a senior in high school and had acquired a wardrobe that was far from the envy of most of my classmates. But, I had a few nice things, all painstakingly bought either on sale or off a clearance rack, making the most of the little money I had. Melissa on the other hand, had mostly hand-me-downs, whichmade their way to our houseful of kids from the neighbors around us.

I really wouldn’t have minded Melissa borrowing my clothes so much if it weren’t for one thing. She was notorious for spilling food down the front of her. I don’t know how it happened time after time, but I think everything of mine she ever borrowed came back with a ketchup or mustard stain dead center on the chest.

“Oh my heck, Melissa, not again, do you eat everything with ketchup and mustard on it!” But she was always so sorry; her dark brown eyes a mirror of her sincere regret. Then a few days later the humble petition would come again and she would ask to borrow something else.

“I guess so . . .” I would say, “but please, please be careful this time!” Melissa’s well-meaning heart and genuine loving nature made it impossible to stay mad at her for more than a few minutes, but I still made sure she knew she was a pain in the neck.

Then one cold fall day Melissa got a new gray sweater. It was a pretty light gray color and was soft and beautifully woven with a square neck. In fact, I really liked her new sweater. Melissa wore it proudly, the one thing of hers that both of us liked. The tables turned slightly in the borrowing business that late fall, as Melissa now had something I wanted to use of hers. She was only too happy to lend it to me, and I was anxious to borrow it. Even though she still borrowed my clothes, at least now she felt she had something of value to lend in return, and she did. We both loved that sweater.

Fall turned to winter and snow began to fall as the Christmas season approached. A tree soon graced the living room and presents began to stack up underneath its boughs. With so many kids, it was our tradition to draw names, each sibling giving to only one other. Christmas morning we all watched with anticipation as each present was opened, one child at a time, beginning with the youngest. The presents were simple, sometimes handmade, as money was scarce and needs were many.

Since I was the oldest, I opened my present last. It was a beautifully wrapped and rectangular shaped. It was from Melissa, who has always had a gift for wrapping presents. Underneath the wrapping paper was a flimsy white box, a clothing box, like the kind that comes from the expensive clothing stores. As I opened the box, I stared, almost breathlessly, at Melissa’s gray sweater. Silently I began to cry. This was the most precious piece of clothing she had. The only one she really cared about. It was her only contribution to our combined collection of “in-style” clothing and she had given it to me, me and my closet full of clothes. As tears gently rolled down my cheeks every “I guess so!” and frustrated look I had ever given her came back to me and I was sorry. I was sorry for every time I chewed her out for spilling ketchup or mustard on my clothes. I was even sorry that I, with all my clothes, had looked beyond what I had and wanted more, envying her gray sweater.

“I can’t take your sweater, Melissa.” I finally said to her.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, “besides, you know me, I’ll probably borrow it back. And I’ll really try hard not to spill on it.