Neither warm enough for winter nor light enough for summer, the grey cardigan occupies the narrow climate band of early autumn and late regret. It hangs on the back of a chair more often than it is worn, ready but rarely called upon, like a understudy who has memorized every line and performed none.
Its buttons are usually one short, the missing one mourned but never replaced. Elbows thin first, developing a faint sheen that catches light in a way the rest of the fabric does not. It is the garment reached for during phone calls with bad news, during long car rides, during the specific tiredness that follows disappointment rather than exertion. No one buys a grey cardigan; it arrives, gift or hand-me-down, and simply stays. By its fifth year it has stopped being clothing and become something closer to a mood you can put your arms through.