Jumper

Grandma used her knitting needles as weapons, viciously stabbing the air as she catalogued my shortcomings. Her fingers pulled the yarn as tight as a hangman’s noose. Dorothy From Next Door listened and sadly shook her head.
Grandma’s jumpers had buttons on the shoulders, implying my head was larger than other children’s or my dressing skills less advanced. In vain, I pleaded for a shop-bought sweater. Grandma dabbed her eyes with a tissue as Dorothy From Next Door muttered something about serpents’ teeth and thankless children.
Grandma’s final creation was a purple mohair monstrosity reaching almost to my knees. A demonic rabbit leered on the front. When the cuffs were folded back three times my hands finally emerged. Nobody could convince me that it was kindly meant.
‘Give us a twirl,’ said Dorothy From Next Door, as Grandma smirked her satisfaction. I uttered a curse beneath my breath that only Dorothy From Next Door heard. I wished Grandma dead.  In my room that night, wearing my Clarks’ sandals I stamped on the rabbit’s evil grin. Early the next morning the telephone startled us into wakefulness. A heart attack had taken her as she slept.
I wore the jumper to the funeral. Its sleeves mopped up my dutiful tears and snot. People said I was brave. Dorothy From Next Door patted my head as she passed, but I saw fear flicker across her face. I sniffed, scrubbed at my nose with the purple mohair and smiled my most innocent smile.