ANNIE'S SWEATER
“I put it on and hugged myself, pretending my daughter was hugging me back.”
The first thing I took was this sweater, which she’d often worn on her chemo days. (It was warm, and its V-neck allowed easy access to her port.) I was housesitting so my son-in-law and grandson could go on their spring-break trip; it was just me, the dog, the cat and all of Annie’s stuff. I felt comfortable surrounded by her stuff and wanted to stay put. So when the April evenings turned cool, rather than drive 15 minutes to fetch something from my own home, I went to Annie’s closet and grabbed the striped sweater. I held it a minute, close to my heart, then put it on and hugged myself, pretending my daughter was hugging me back.
Since then, every time I’m at her house I’m like a kleptomaniac. I pick up a pair of socks, a pair of leggings, another sweater. The light blue T-shirt she had on when the visiting nurse came to dress the skin-cancer lesions on her left side. The light cotton pants she’d worn during summers in Maine. We weren’t the same size—she was at least two sizes smaller—but thanks to her love of “comfies,” some pieces fit. That was one of our things: I’d sleep over at her house, we’d get in our comfies, queue up the latest Netflix binge, organize our snacks and open the Cab Sauv. It was our perfect night.
We were close from the start. Because I was the first of my friends to have a child, and because my then-husband worked long hard hours, for the early years of Annie’s life it was really just us two. We never lost that closeness. Every day, if we didn’t see each other, we were texting or calling, and in time our mother-daughter relationship evolved into a true understanding of each other as women. I know she wasn’t especially happy when, after years of taking care of herself, she suddenly needed me to take care of her again after her breast-cancer diagnosis in 2021. But I also know she was grateful.
Over the years, Annie sought treatment for anxiety, which made her especially empathetic to others who were also struggling. This was on top of her natural inclination to connect with people; way back in second grade, her teacher gave her the social-butterfly award because she was always so friendly to everyone. In her job as community liaison for her Connecticut town’s popular natural foods store, she had a way of charming even the most curmudgeonly Yankee.
She loved a funny story, even when she was the butt of the joke. Once, when we were shopping for space heaters, she pointed to one and said, “This one’s good—it’s infra-red,” but she pronounced it “in-frared” and I nearly fell down laughing. Naturally it became a family legend (not to mention our wi-fi password), and she laughed about it along with everyone else.
Less than a year after she was diagnosed, Annie’s cancer metastasized. She died on April 2, 2024. She was only 43. A daughter, a wife, a mom to a 12-year-old boy. Her second-grade teacher came to her wake.
A month later, when I had a hysterectomy, I took a blue-and-green flannel shirt of Annie’s to wear home from the hospital since she wouldn’t be there with me. And one morning in June as I sat down to pull on my socks, I realized everything I was wearing, socks included, had once been Annie’s. I think about all the clothes still in her closet, how I still need to help my son-in-law go through them. But go through them…and what? Give them away? Throw them out? It feels like every piece of clothing holds a memory I can’t give up. No wonder I want to steal them all.
—Cindy Eastman
Cindy Eastman is a writer and teacher whose latest book, True Confessions of an Ambivalent Caregiver, was published in September. She has contributed to a number of anthologies, is the editor of the anthology Everyday Grief, and writes the weekly Substack essay Silver Linings.
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Love your keep things story, Cindy! Isn't clothing just the perfect, simple keepsake of those we love and will miss?!! I kept articles of both my parents.. not necessarily textiles, but of adornment/accoutrements. My father's belt & watch. *acutally I "stole" numerous belts and had an artist friend make them into jewelry cuffs for my nieces (of their grandfather's). My Mom's glasses, wedding ring and other jewelry. These all keep them close in memory.
Oh my, the sweetest of essays and what a wonderful mom you were to her.... but your loss is huge. I am so sorry for you ---- my dad passed away in 1995. I have a shirt of his hanging in my closet. When I look at it, I just see him. It's a beautiful thing...... so I totally get your holding of her clothing.