Yesterday, as I sorted through Marcie's clothes and shoes and personal things, I could not find one piece that was without meaning or a memory. The first fifteen minutes or so of sorting were wistful, the next nostalgic, the quarter hour following that was progressively heavier and sadder until, finally, I could not continue.
I'll try again eventually. Someday before I leave, I hope. I am glad that the Frock You folks, when called, had remembered other plans themselves and were very understanding. Thanks, Kirsten.
They protected you from a cold
which no more will chill you.
You shopped for them all with such care
they cannot fulfill you.
You've no need for dresses like those.
I know you don't need these old shoes.
Your feet won't walk, on rue or avenue,
or in a green spring field.
They cannot lift your lips to mine
no matter how high-heeled.
The memory of steps now a muse.
Your luggage isn't needed now.
You took no suitcase or roller,
no handbag to depart.
Your carry-on was our life here,
inside, you packed my heart.
No baggage our well heeded vow.
Lingerie still lies in the dresser.
Your wore it all for a lover,
who now cannot thrill you.
The lace, satin, silk, skimpy cover,
the shape in them still you.
Couture for ardor's confessor.
I should not hold on to all this.
Your clothes might well warm someone cold,
you luggage bear them home.
The shoes may replace soles grown old,
to help travelers roam.
Dispersed to the world, none remiss.
You don't need these things but I do.
A shoe is a walk or a dance,
I see you in each dress.
Every bag and suitcase a chance,
bits of you to possess,
A boudoir of your soul, built by you.
You don't need the clothes to appear.
For now, though, I keep them in place.
You may not expect them to be here,
but for now they are here, just in case.
Good night, folks
F.
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