With the onset of autumn comes that chill in the air; too warm for a coat, yet too cool for shirt sleeves. Finding the morning a bit brisk today, I went to my closet and came across my Lopi.
Lopi wool comes from a long-haired sheep in Iceland, but my Lopi sweater came from my mother. Back in the late 1970's her knitting needles worked continuously on patterned sweaters with roomy hoods and flowered pockets.
My next door neighbor and good friend, Angie, fell in love with my Lopi and soon became the recipient of her own as Mom usually knit in quantities, never wanting to leave anyone out.
Being a sweater-jacket and fitting loose on the body, it wasn't worn for style as much as for warmth. It allowed us to sit outside on chilly days, leisurely reading in the porch swing or sitting on the front steps. Though somewhat scratchy at first, our bodies would soon acclimate to its texture and dissolve into warmth amidst its comforting embrace.
My mother's hands have made so many beautiful things for us throughout the years, and thankfully I've had sense enough to hold onto most of them. They are a constant reminder of her love for art, and her love for us.
I could travel the world over and probably find stylish designs made of rich yarns and fabrics with fancy price tags. But I'd rather wrap myself up in memories with a warmth that transcends the body and touches the heart. Everyone should feel that kind of love. Everyone should have a "Lopi".