My wife’s birthday; a special day, though the rituals of morning are the same: the flowered-coconut warmth of her perfume on the January air; the medicinal-leather stink of her insulin, spiked thrice daily. On a hook on the wall, a striped Oxford-cloth shirt, soft and wrinkled.
Once mine, but always slightly too small for me; now, comfortably too large for her; one day, for a possibly brief period, maybe just right for our son. By then, it will be filled with us, our dust worked into the spaces between threads, as they have worn slowly away.
For today, just the basenote-traces of her perfume and the not-quite-cleanness of yesterday.
This reads like a poem..it's beautiful.
ReplyDeleteA beautiful, intimate description of sense memory. Lovely.
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