My love of sweaters knows no bounds—I have a generous stash, despite living in Northern California, where they are more indulgence than necessity.
Once a year, at winter’s end, I send them to the dry cleaner before tucking them away for the warmer months. Worn through fall and winter, they absorb my perfumes, turning the simple act of dressing into a sensory experience.
I pull open a drawer or let my fingers wander over hanging swatches of wool, cotton, and cashmere before making my selection for the day. As I slip a sweater over my head, its fibers release a whisper of perfume, an unexpected rush of scent. Though I know I’ve left my imprint, I’m always caught off guard by the piece of me that lingers, waiting to greet me.
These moments last only seconds, but they never fail to make me smile—wrapped in warmth and a heady bouquet of jasmine, citrus, and pink pepper.