The purple sweater hangs in the closet,
In the back where painful memories hide.
Its fabric still soft,
Her scent still barely there.
But its sleeves remain empty,
Without hope of animation.
An artifact of a time gone by

If you hold your breath,
You can almost hear her laughter.
If you squint,
You can almost see her smile.
But only for a second

You slip it over your shoulders
And breathe through the sharp pain in your chest
It feels like breaking,
But it feels like healing too.
It always hurts,
But so do most things worth remembering.