i was twenty, home from school one weekend for hugs and home-cooked food
down the dark staircase leading to the kitchen for water i saw the light under the laundry room door so i went across the tile floor bare feet still pink from the shower over loose dirt from my father's construction site i pressed myself against the door as tight as a i dared
she was in front of the dryer, pulling clothes out by the handful - my dad's work shirt, her weekend sweats, socks, the basic training shirt my brother gave me when he left
i watched her hold it in her hands pull it against her chest curl around its warmth the way she curled around my brother that afternoon she inhaled slowly unfolded turned the shirt inside out one sleeve over the other then placed it in my pile
so i went back across the kitchen floor no cool glass of water in my sweating palms but a burning wetness pooling in my eyes
i put it on in the morning still warm as if she took it to bed held it all night long the way she held him when he was born small pale sickly wide-eyed
she spends the morning with her hands on my shoulders ******* the cotton fabric as if it's fading with every passing moment
she calls me by his name i don't question the long hug goodbye