That box tucked into the deep shadow of a closet...
you're not even sure where, exactly,
that box is sitting now, but you know it exists,
hidden from view,
not often brought out or even remembered,
but safe.
There's no reason to hang onto things,
but this you'll never let go. Not after all this time.
It's way too late for this kind of spring cleaning now.
The cardboard is old, tired, buckled in
at the corners, top flaps tucked into each other
in dusty embrace.
Memories threaten to spill out in a flood
to disturb the calm of years passed,
and the stillness of forgetting.
You remember knitting that sweater
with inexpert but careful fingers and furrowed brow,
picturing his handsome face,
weaving hope into each blue stitch.
You envisioned his smile; knew he'd wear it,
warm inside the love
you could never explain properly,
but could only weave with slow fingers.
You never imagined the blank years
that would come in awful waves;
his body broken, buried, and the empty ache that followed.
Damaged yourself, you gasped for air and reason,
for anything at all that made sense.
The sweater was returned.
"I thought you would want this", but no, you never
wanted to have to keep this thing
forever, folded into a plastic bag,
tucked away in a box, in a closet, somewhere,
alive only in the tiniest, darkest, forgotten
corner of your heart.
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