I have a sweater that belonged to my grandmother, made of (according to its label) French silk wool, cream colored with onyx and pearl beadwork. For me, it evokes memories of my grandmother on one of our annual visits to Atlantic City, which was an elegant place before its decline into urban blight that made the casinos seem like salvation. The sweater is memorabilia in the truest sense of the word. Extrinsic and aesthetic value aside, what matters to me is the sweater is a portal to childhood memories and to my grandmother, who I adored.

            Even though the sweater is a cherished possession, I have never just put it away. In fact, I love to see the sweater still in circulation. When my daughters ask to borrow it, I say yes. Somewhere in my brain I know it could get lost or damaged, but the joy I feel seeing such a meaningful tie to the past on the backs of the future cancels out any concerns I might have.

            This past week, Rachael went to California and took the sweater with her. When she came back yesterday, she tossed all her clothes, including my grandmother’s sweater, into the washing machine, and then the dryer.

            You can’t wash ninety-year old French silk wool with beadwork in a washing machine and stick it in the dryer without very bad things happening to it. When I saw it post-dryer, my heart sank. Threads holding the beads in place had unraveled so the beads scattered everywhere, and the cream color was now obscured by a thin film of black lint. The sweater had shrunk to toddler size. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was upset. Rachael felt terrible.

            “I’m so sorry, Mom,” she said.

            “That’s okay. You didn’t do it on purpose,” I said, but she could tell I wasn’t just shrugging off my loss.

            “Maybe we can get it fixed,” she said, her tone was unconvinced, because it was obvious that the sweater was beyond help. Then, it hit me. The thing I loved about the sweater had nothing to do with perfection. Running the sweater through the wash altered it, for sure, but it was not destroyed. In fact, as memorabilia goes, it had acquired a new layer of significance.

            I’m keeping the sweater. It might not be wearable, but it can still inspire memories of my grandmother and now, my daughter. Thank you, Rachael, for accidentally reminding me that the true value of memorabilia is found not only in fancy beadwork, but in humble lint.