October 8, 2017: Mom’s faux fur coat has been hanging in an upstairs closet for five years. I’ve never worn it. I’ve had several boxes of her clothes under my bed for about 18 months.
Last week, the daughter of a friend called to say she is collecting household goods and clothing for a Syrian family arriving in Canada at the end of the month. She could pick up anything I might want to pass along to them on Thanksgiving weekend, she said.
What good are Mom’s clothes doing anyone under my bed? That heavy coat could be keeping someone warm instead of hanging useless in a closet.
It seemed like the right time to do the right thing. As always, the right thing is not the easy thing. This poem is about that, and the fabric of our lives.
stitches & threads
Remembering my mom, Patty, September 27, 1928 – August 17, 2016.
today I gave away your clothes
things you wore in shades of rose
skies were grey, the rain it poured
i found myself upon the floor
my eyes became the clouds above
spilled over with both grief and love
why are we so attached to things?
corduroys, capris with strings
perhaps because they seem infused
with memories and times confused
each weave, each fold a story tells
a piece of heaven, a slice of hell
with some stuff i could not part
for fear that it should break my heart
a set of pearls, six pair of shoes
i simply could not bear to lose
bits and pieces are not you retained
your fuller self is my life’s refrain
like the stitches and the threads
we all live on after we’re dead
©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.