Time Capsule

My hands comb through sediment of loose left socks,

pushing the refuse up to my chest to be buckled with my non dominant arm as I continue to mine for that band tee shirt I really wanted to wear this weekend,

breath catches in my throat,

the canary dies.

I am left to hear my body hold back a cry

it slips through the chamber of my throat, catches in my teeth, and is swallowed down into the pit of my lungs,

then cloys up the brachial trees to attempt the feat all over again.

My cheeks flush,

sinuses flare up,

the pressure of tears rise and press under my eyelids,

my heart tips from my ribcage to look at it -

the sweatshirt I wore when

my world collapsed.

I thought I had cleaned myself of the sadness,

I was tired of seeing that day in my hands, my eyes,

carrying it for weeks, sleeping with aching ribs and a heavy heart.

I loved this sweatshirt.

I never knew that it would be who I was when I heard the news.

How funny, how we bury pain but it always comes back, like daffodils after winter,

like birds migrating,

it must be seen, heard, unearthed,

before it grows over and gains control.

I scoop the sweatshirt.

I close my eyes and remember arms squeezing it as we grieved over the words,

“We lost her.”

I breath the January stuck in the fabric,

sitting in the rubble of loose socks,

stained jeans,

and other articles of existence.

*

Art is by Captain Tenneal on Flickr