I Never Saw Anyone Actually Poem by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

I never saw anyone actually wear one of the sweaters
my Aunt Minna made. We thanked her, praised her,
held up whichever one we got. Held it against ourselves,
showing off the argyle crew neck or raglan-sleeve cardigan,

too heavy for the slim framed, too flimsy for the broad.
And to boot, the colors, oh the colors she picked
to knit — mostly shades of off-green and puce,
and sale yarn, at that. Yarn that rendered her colorblind

to our skin tones, heedless to our body shapes. Content
with and bent on fashioning the correct size garment
with unreasonable color and texture, she knitted on
and on, her bone needles clicking their way to the end

of each row of sale yarn, each garment growing less
and less into what we needed, wanted. Her efforts,
though collectively rewarding her with love and attention,
thwarted any requests for future sweaters,

let alone hats, scarves or gloves; so she turned to
crocheting — crocheting more sale yarn into
a carton-full of four inch squares she fabricated
into one afghan, after another. That handiwork

was later followed by neon pom-pom tassels for tying
on luggage, which allowed her to use up every last bit
of leftover yarn in her possession. To this day, those
eye-popping beauties adorn suitcases of mine

that ride round airport carousels, sit in train-station
baggage claims, stand amid a throng of travelers
anywhere, anytime. And each time
I eye one, I smile.