I love this sweater. I love it more with each small bloom of wool & silk & cotton I add, mending it together, with each plain button I swap out for a favorite that's lingered in my stash. And that's the gift of slow living, of caring for (in both senses) physical objects. The thrill of finding secondhand, the tenderness of mending, the consideration of repair all give my live a kind of umami sense, a fullness of experience that everything-on-demand, ready-made, and throw-away totally lack. Tangible objects are sums, the confluence of labor and materials, time and energy, ingenuity and possibility. In every thing we hold, there is a window into a thousand stories and a million connections with our world; my sweater embodies the thrift store (@oldschoolthrifty) where I picked it up, already hol(e)y a few years ago, the conversation with the staff who insisted on lowering its price because it needed mending. The patterns of intarsia, the wool, the sheep, the farmers and shearers and spinners, the machines and machinations of industrialized fashion. My mass of buttons from my mother and my Popo, the yarns, some thrifted but the silkiest handed down from a friend. The meeting I mended in yesterday, talking political action and public grief. The way it kept me warm as I hurried home through an empty Monday city. This sweater has been my self-proclaimed darning education; for the first month after I bought it, I seemed to never have fewer than four or more than seven holes to mend. It was just the right amount for a bit of autodidacticism, both pattern and pacing helping my increasingly ept patches blend in. Now the mending is for my own wear and tear; threadbare patches under the arms from the rhythm of miles and miles of walking, fraying at the edges of no-longer-pristine cuffs. There is no end-state sweater, no perfect wool pinnacle from which an object slides towards inevitable decay. There isn't perfection, there isn't immortality, there is only object impermanence.