The Morning of a Worn Sleeve

It was a cardigan touched by morning light. The wool that brushed my fingertips was cold, but the inside was soft. The elbows had worn thin, so that when light shone through, a patch the size of a palm glowed. One button was missing, and threads remained where it had been. That cardigan had hung on one person's shoulders. The shoulder line had stretched, and the pocket openings gaped a little. Until it was handed over without a word, it still held that person's body heat. He couldn't even unfold the cardigan; he only pressed his thumb against the worn place at the end of the sleeve.