Your Manchester United
football shirt
hangs framed
on the wall:
Ole and number 20
show through the glass.

I remember
you wearing it,
your body
filling out the cloth,
giving life to it,
your name
and number
worn proud
amongst the family,
or out in the crowd.

Now your shirt
hangs there
silent and still
behind the glass.

I wonder if it
still retains
some aspect of you,
some particles
like sparkles
that remain long after
like memories residing
in the shirt's soul.

Your brother put it there,
sealed in the frame,
your number 20
and Ole
your shortened name,
out of love and grief,
wanting it
to always be
in sight, part of you,
inside, like a light
in the mind's
dark night.