Goodwill
A trip to browse,
Not to buy,
Or so I always say.
The store is cavernous,
With racks and racks of old clothes in the front,
Clothes for men,
Clothes for women,
Clothes for girls and boys,
All freshly washed and hung,
Everything smells like an old dark closet,
musty with a hint of mothballs.
There in the back are shelves laden with outdated electronics,
Things that used to be for sale on late-night TV—
Hot dog cookers, vegetable slicers, drip coffee makers,
And things that look interesting, but you can’t quite place what they are.
So, back to the clothes.
Wide lapels, size 28 jeans, bowling shirts, tank tops.
T-shirts adorned with old logos from forgotten companies.
But hey, what’s this?
A sweater.
It’s thick and looks comfortable,
Oversized and well worn.
There was life in this garment,
And warmth.
Maybe it was donated by a grieving widow,
Mourning and cleaning out the closet,
Lingering on this sweater, this thick, wooly, red plaid pullover.
She held it close for a moment,
Smelling it one last time, hoping to catch a lingering scent of her husband’s cologne,
And there it was,
Dakkar Noir,
Pungent, slightly sweet,
She inhaled the fragrance and, with it, the memories,
There he is, sitting in front of the window on a rainy day,
The rain is tapping the glass and drizzling lazily down to the sill,
He’s in his favorite sweater,
Drinking coffee and grinning at her,
What should we do?
He asks.
Stay in,
She says.
And again, there he is,
On yet another dreary day,
Wearing his favorite plaid sweater
And gingerly cradling their firstborn.
He looks up,
A grin on his face,
But also fear, hope, and pride
In equal measure.
Was he wearing it at the doctor’s office that day?
The day they got the news?
She didn’t remember.
The sweater hung on him toward the end,
So much so that he put it in the closet
And never took it out again.
Her mother,
There to help,
Takes the sweater from her and puts it in the bin,
And holds her daughter until the tears dry on her cheeks.
They finish the job, and the clothes go away.
Or maybe it’s just an old sweater.
And I’m here now looking at a lifetime and wondering if it will fit.
I bought it, and I’ll wear it,
And maybe, just maybe,
The life that was lived might live for a little bit longer
