Finding Words

It draped in soft folds.
Black fragments of fabric that fell
and swam in deep pools around my thighs.
It cloaked me in some imagined mystery.
Pockets which gaped right where my hands naturally and nervously fluttered,
Buttons sliced me in half, a vertical equator
leaving my breasts stranded far, one from the other.
It was black.
The perfect black cardigan,
Sweeping my shadow with it,
dancing with me.
It had that smell – you know –
the one that clings to woollens and reminds you of Grandma
or Home.
And now, it is gone.
I never saw it leave.
All I have left is the caress of its memory…
and a lasting sense of the cold.
 
Today I wear gray and it is just not the same.
 
But that too is ok.
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