The Garage Next Door

The Garage Next Door

No one seems to want it—

the fashionable cruisewear left

when her mother died last February,

having whittled herself to nothing

in the hospital, inexorably fading

in the frame of casual misdiagnoses.

Today her daughter again

opens the nylon suitcase, green,

the color of apples and hope.

She places each piece

on a hanger that swings lightly

from the rungs of a sideways ladder.

One, a pleated cotton floral never worn,

the tags protruding like a scarecrow’s hands.

Another, a black satin coat. And the browns:

a rich chocolate jacket with gold buttons

over a silk appliquéd blouse.

She’s tried before to bundle them

for charity shops. She cannot.

She wants them on the shoulders

and hips of family and friends,

the familiar fabric of acquaintance.

But no-one is size eight.

She lifts the slacks, leather purses,

the pastel cardigans, folds them carefully back

into the luggage that has made its last journey.

The hangers move slightly, as if nodding

or shrugging.

--first published in Concho River Review