She handed me a tied-up plastic grocery bag
Containing two of my mother’s sweaters
But I didn’t open it for months
For fear I would forever lose her smell.
I left it on the floor in the corner of my closet
But the neon pink flashed through the opaque bag
Like an advertisement of her absence.
Finally, I ripped apart the plastic and released her:
The scent of Tide and the faintest trace of her musky perfume.
Soft like her arms, I pulled the sweaters close to my chest
And sunk my face into the fabric.
I tried my best to breathe every particle of her into my lungs
Until all I could smell was my own hot breath
Being flooded with the peace of her love.
After a while, I stood and put them onto hangers,
No longer feeling the need to preserve her.
For I am her and she is me.
Neon Pink and free.
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