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
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 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.