MY MOTHER SLIPS SCARVES INTO MY HAND by Esther Sadoff

Shows me hats, gloves, asks me
to keep them or put them in the bag
with the discarded, sullen few.
Every day we try to fill a bag.
We sneak in my sister’s old scarves
though she’s miles away,
won’t even notice they’re gone.
I don’t envy the tattered fabrics,
the dust-worn wool, the frayed and waving tassels,
each item a year I don’t mind forgetting.
Next we switch to my mother’s closet:
layers of black clothing so dark
we can’t find a thing. When I refuse
to take anything home, she meets me outside
with cakes and a hat I’ve never seen before.
When my parents visit my sister, they call me,
place the phone where I should be sitting,
and declare We’re all together again.


Photo by storebukkebruse,  used and adapted under CC.