There I am. Hands folded. Feet planted. Standing exactly where I was told to stand. The red sweater fits just right—because it was made that way. Knitted by my Auntie Delia, my grandfather’s sister, stitch by stitch, with the quiet certainty of someone who knew both her craft and her people.
My grandfather’s sister was named Delia—Auntie Delia to me. She left Ireland after her brother did, crossed the same ocean in a different season of life, and somehow ended up settling on the very same block in New York City. Different journeys, same destination. Close enough that family wasn’t something you scheduled—it was just there, woven into the rhythm of everyday life.
I can still remember going for fittings. Standing there while she adjusted and checked her work, pulling the sweater just so. I also remember that it itched. Not unbearably—but enough to notice. Enough that I was aware I was wearing something handmade, something real, something that hadn’t been softened by time or washing yet.
Behind me, the city moves along without noticing. Adults walk with purpose. Cars pass by. Everyone seems to have somewhere important to be. I, meanwhile, am fully committed to my assignment: stand still, squint into the light, wait for the click, and then move on to whatever comes next. Preferably something involving food.
At that age, I didn’t think much about where things came from. A sweater was just a sweater. You put it on. It kept you warm. You went about your day. I didn’t know that someone had taken time—real, patient time—to make this one by hand, or that Auntie Delia had sat somewhere quiet, needles moving, thinking about a kid she loved enough to make something just for him.
The sweater matters now.
It fits—not just in size, but in spirit. Handmade. Unrushed. Practical. Built to last. There’s something grounding about that kind of care, especially when you realize how rare it becomes as the years go by.
The kid in the picture doesn’t know any of this yet. He’s just doing what he’s told, trusting the adults around him, assuming the day will unfold the way days usually do. And most of the time, back then, it did.
Looking at this photograph now, I don’t feel the need to warn him or offer advice. I just feel grateful. Grateful for the warmth he didn’t question—even the itch he tolerated. Grateful for the people who showed love without making a production of it. Grateful for Auntie Delia, whose hands are still present in this moment, even though she’s nowhere in the frame.
Not a bad kid.
And a very good sweater.
The Valley Viewpoint 