By March, the house felt like it was made of wool. Sweaters spilled from the armoire like slow-moving lava; they occupied every chair and whispered from the corners of his bed. Arthur loved them, but he couldn't breathe.
Arthur lived in a house that was far too small for his memories. He was a man of the North, where winters were long and woolly, but his heart belonged to the fleeting, golden weeks of autumn. The problem was his sweaters. Arthur owned hundreds—hand-knit cardigans, thick cable-knit pullovers, and soft cashmere turtlenecks that smelled of cedar and old books. where to buy vacuum seal bags
He spent the afternoon "archiving" his life. One by one, the heavy winters vanished. He sealed away the heavy quilts that had kept him warm through the January gales and the thick wool socks that felt like clouds. By sunset, three hundred sweaters had been reduced to a neat stack of shimmering plastic tiles tucked under his bed. By March, the house felt like it was made of wool