I have a useless closet in my bedroom
a place where things go to die —
like the two blouses my mother made for me
36 years ago.
I will never wear them.
Not just the outdated style
but they do not fit me anymore.
She made them
on her Singer sewing machine.
She bought the fabric and cut it.
She made these blouses with love
and they hang,
fading with the years,
slowly turning to dust.
Proof that I was loved.
NOTE: With thanks to E. B. White for providing the title for this piece
