“Sylvia’s taste is … unusual,” Mother murmured.

“She has no taste,” I said. “And her color choices are so peculiar that I really think someone should find a way to test her for color blindness.”

“She tries so hard,” Mother said.

“Mostly she does bulky Christmas sweaters,” I said. “With Santas or reindeer or Christmas trees or bells. Only she does her own designs, so everything just looks like multicolored amoebas. Or psychedelic Rorschach tests.”

“Still—one could make allowances,” Mother said. “If only she’d use natural fibers. Wool. Cotton.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to dye natural fibers in colors garish enough to please Sylvia,” I said.

“Now you’ve roused my curiosity,” Robyn said. “You must come and show me this sweater after Christmas.”

“I’ll show it to you now.” I began picking at the tape at one end of the soft, bulky parcel.

“You can’t open that now,” Mother said.

“Why not?” I asked. “She won’t be here to see me open it on Christmas Day. Even if she were, I can tape it up again.”

“Well, it would be nice to see what we’re all in for this year,” Mother said. “Once she comes up with a pattern she likes, she usually does it up in different color combinations for everyone,” she added to Robyn.

“I’m just surprised she gave me a present at all,” I said. “I thought she wasn’t speaking to me. She found out I’d given away some of the sweaters she’s made for me and Michael over the years.”

“You should never have donated them to the church rummage sale,” Mother said.

“She knitted those sweaters you donated to the rummage sale?” Robyn exclaimed. “Oh, my.” She regarded the parcel with alarm.

“I knew better than to donate them anywhere else,” I said. “I know she haunts every thrift shop for miles around. I just didn’t think she’d come to the Trinity rummage sale.”

“Next time just mail them to Cousin Alicia in California,” Mother said. “That’s what I do. She has found someplace that’s happy to have them. Possibly some organization that helps the visually impaired. And then— Oh, my!”

I had finally succeeded in removing the paper from the sweater and held it up. Mother and I stared at it, speechless.

“Actually, this one is rather nice,” Robyn said.

It wasn’t Sylvia’s usual bulky horror. It was a soft, boatneck sweater, all black except for the neckline, hemline, and the ends of the sleeves, which shaded into black flecked with a slight hint of metallic gold. I held it against my body and measured. I’d have to try it on to be sure, but it looked as if it would fit me perfectly. And look good on me. Perhaps Mother had brought the wrong parcel. I checked the tag: TO MEG FROM SYLVIA.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.