It was in the racks
of old musty clothes
where we seemed
to have the
most in common
Sliding through
plastic hangers
and confederate tees,
this is where
we were okay,
where we could
move through
mountains of cotton,
no words spoken, except
for the excitement
of a ‘good find.’
Where we stood,
here in these discarded
piles of people’s past lives,
we understood ours
You saved your
favorite Levi’s jeans,
your personal best find
(adding holes to your belt
when your weight decreased)
and the ones you wore
when the doctor said
the cancer came back—
the frayed bottoms
shivering in fear
The ones we
moved to a little
cardboard box
when mom and I
sorted through your things
And the ones I
still have
and swear still smell
like your cologne.
I have your Levi’s, dad.
They’re safe with me.