Cashmere

Cashmere

Cashmere, the mention alone, beautiful to speech.  Cashmere, pronouncing it, the syllables, smooth, clear, luxurious, as the unit of spoken language rolls off the tongue. Cashmere.  Cashmere. Cashmere. Say it; repeat it for surely, you will fall captive under its spoken spell. A fine textured fiber, light, strong, and soft, shorn goat’s hair.  A garment made from cashmere is certain to provide excellent insulation and instant appeal.

It was at a Nordstrom’s sale that I spotted the cashmere wrap, my fingers gently caressing the soft fibers, wondering if, perhaps? Walking away, uncomfortable as the sales clerk loomed too close.  After all, I am not really the confident cashmere type of woman or am I? A woman who elevates jeans and basic tees with faux pearls. Sipping a latte, imagining myself wrapped in the luxurious cashmere, dreaming, perhaps.

It was the allure.  The light, soft touch of the fibers that drew me back, the seductive charm of the soft weaves.  Choosing the wrap with the diagonal, cable knit pattern, as it must look different, unexpected.  An ordinary, predictable cashmere wrap would never do. Choosing the shade of grayed, west coast, wintery clouds, wrapping myself in bespoke luxury, I could not resist the self-indulgent purchase of cashmere.  For I was buying an emotion if one can even do that, capturing a sentiment.

Wearing it felt divine.  Suddenly, no longer just another woman in a crowd. “Who is that woman wearing the cashmere?”  It is simple, casual.  When tossed about the shoulders, the weave gives the wearer an elevated look of effortless elegant glamour.  I can attest to the warmth.

My mother is opening her gift, delighting in the patterns on the delicate tissue papers that envelope it.  “Oh my goodness,” she exclaims.  There is a pause of silence.  Do you like it, Mom?  Don’t worry, mom.  If it needs dry cleaning, I’ll take care of it for you. My mother whispers, “ I’ve had two cashmere sweaters in my life. Your father bought me one.  I was about seventeen and he bought me a cashmere sweater for my birthday.  It was very beautiful.  Smart looking.  A dark navy with a small collar.”  My mother gestures to her neck.  “So lovely. We went skiing and I wore it.”  For a moment, my mother, a vision of youth in all its splendour, her petite frame, classical good looks, widow’s peak of raven hair, coiffed and flipped, one so beautiful in navy cashmere set against the winter white wonderland.  “We went skiing and I got soaked.  We hiked to his cabin and your father lit a fire, hanging the cashmere sweater over the stovepipe to dry.  The heat from the pipe burned through the back of the cashmere.  That was the end of it.  This is beautiful, Grace.   Dark navy.  I’m so grateful.”  It’s black Mom, you deserve it. “No, it’s dark navy, it’s the colour of the sweater your father bought me so many years ago.  Thank you, you’re too good to me.”  Capturing a sentiment.