There are moths in the closet. Fluttering their way between cashmere and wool. Nibbling on midnight snacks of warm woven fabric. 

I slip the sweater over my head, the tiny hole left just below my neck the size of a miniature dinner plate. I push my finger through to confirm what is lost and sigh. 

Later Mom weaves together what has been broken with green and purple thread—unedible to the tiny transgressors. I look in the mirror wondering where the next snack will be taken by silver winged offenders.