MY FATHER MAILS ME HIS WIFE’S CLOTHING
by Karen Loeb
I will not wear her clothes that
you have sent me, lovingly folded
and packed, sweater upon sweater,
cashmere and silk jackets she probably
never wore once her feet hit California soil.
I will not wear her blouses, the ones
with pearl buttons up the spine
and the faded green one with no sleeves.
I will not wear the mink hat
and the cracked leather gloves with
the blue silk lining. I will not wear
the India print blouse, though it’s
probably the only item that appeals
to me. I will not wear the high heels
with scuffed soles. I will not wear
these clothes that are forty years out of
date, that were made for a body that
is not mine, that are filled with moth
holes and material snags and cigarette
burns and permanent stains. I appreciate
your thoughts, that you want her
somehow to live on even though she’s
gone. I’m glad the Rocky Mountains
are between us, that there’s little chance
you’ll visit, so you won’t see that I haven’t
kept a stitch of them. I’m grateful your
note, scrawled on yellow legal pad paper, said,
“Wear what you can, and donate the rest.”
Gyroscope Review - page 13
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