It was just a small bundle of fibers, cotton and polyester

But when I caught sight of it I lost my breath for a second

Like I used to too often feel my breath catch all the time.

I gently unfolded it to see if it was what my muscle memory knew it was.

Your old holey sweatshirt.

Holy now, in a way, worn now by your son

To maybe exercise his muscle memory.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years!

Who could know that pitiful truth? Which is

You are missed still in ways both wistful and immense

And daily.

Sometimes with a faint smile and less often

With the hot tears I spent

Clutching your holey, holy old sweatshirt.

A shroud now for the sorrow our child harbors like a confused miser

It might be the last thing he releases when he is old

And ready to go on to where you are.

It was without doubt

The last thing in my hands before I jumped into oblivion

Night after night seeking rest from the anguish

The missing

The feelings too big for my frame.

And though I sewed myself back together

And let go of the anchor that tied me so well

Sometimes I find things that should have been rendered benign

And again grief, she finds me.

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