Shirts

by SL Ruth

Mom sent over some of my dad's shirts
Since he is dead
I was grateful to get them.

I smell the starched collars worn to frayed edge
and look at them draped limp on wire hangers.

I touch where he touched, on the rough work weaves,
and smooth the cotton of his dress shirt,
I feel what he felt
against his skin.

I could never fill those shirts,
I've got shirts of my own to fill now he's gone.

His shirts, long-sleeved in time
softened neutrals,
and wide shining ties striped to match

hang above his resoled shoes free of dust,
they belonged to my Dad.
Neither one of us needs them now,
So why do I keep them?

I caress the blue one closest to me
And sniff once more a trace of his cologne
then I shut the closet door
and again, I wonder why?