I can still remember the day she bought it.
I’d flown to New Zealand for a holiday and as a family, we had decided to spend a few days in Queenstown—eating, strolling and shopping our way around the beautiful lakeside village.
My mother and I have always shopped together. Some of my most treasured memories, in fact, are the Saturday mornings we spent—often after my weekly netball game—browsing through the shops before enjoying lunch somewhere together, just the two of us. To be honest, it was less about the actual shopping, but rather the feeling that she was all mine—at least for a few hours.
So on this particular trip to Queenstown, as we mindlessly wandered through the little laneway boutiques, I felt nostalgic for those long lost mornings and excited for the delights we might uncover. Sure enough, as we entered our favourite store, my mother moved towards a pile of chunky black mohair cardigans. With exaggerated bell sleeves and delicately oversized white shell buttons, they were pure perfection. While at first she showed some reluctance to try one on given the slightly eye-watering price tag, with a little encouragement, she was persuaded into the dressing room and as soon as she’d popped it on, we knew it was coming home with us.
Given the cool Queenstown weather, The Cardigan got lots of wear on that holiday—and on subsequent trips home to New Zealand, I managed to borrow it from time to time, too. While many people are precious about their wardrobes, my mother and I have always shared an open door policy, happily borrowing and swapping pieces from our individual collections regularly. It wasn’t uncommon, in fact, for items that had once been passed on from one to the other to return to their original owner at some later date, feeling refreshed after being seen with new eyes.
But despite having worn countless items from my mother’s wardrobe over the years—there has always been something special about The Cardigan. With each wear it seemed to get cosier, like a warm hug from a loved one. And the best bit was that it always smelled like her.
So, when during my most recent trip to New Zealand I was told I could take The Cardigan home with me to Sydney because, in her words—I don’t really wear it anymore—I could barely contain my joy, quickly bundling it into my bag before she could change her mind.
Now, The Cardigan sits pride of place in my own wardrobe—and while I’m undoubtedly enamoured by the sartorial statement made when I wear it, my fondness for this collection of simple black threads runs deeper. No matter how often I wear it, as soon as I slip it on, I am transported back to that cool Queenstown morning spent shopping with Mum. And that, I think, is its true beauty. An object, sure, but also a reminder of the connection I share with her—a connection that can never be unwoven.