Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?
While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-
I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.
I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...
Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back
only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.
Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.
