Sometimes I wrap myself in thin
green, shetland, stiff with age, smelling
of moth balls and stale dust,
to remember. It’s all I have left
of you…a sweater that’s starting to
unravel along the edges. Like you,
those final years, unraveling,
spiraling into an abyss so deep,
none of us could have saved you.
I know that now. It’s strange.
Your sweater, just an old wooly
rag really, hints of Old Spice
aftershave wafting, when I press my
face into its course, wiry fibers, has
saved me from the edge more
than a few times. I guess that’s why
I can’t part with it.
I suppose I never will.
For NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 26. Prompt: write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses.