Dirty Laundry

Upon cleaning the closet I realized that you are still in there hiding amongst yesterdays dresses. I could smell your scent wafting as I closed my eyes to recall us on the Ltrain headed to a party; me in a vintage 1960s Bill Blass gown, my hair in zulu knots — You in a 1940s Swiss military field jacket, so tall with your dark hair slicked, so beautiful, your eyes pooled looking upon me.

I thought I heard your voice like a breeze faint in the distance. Your nose on my shoulder in that crusty tub on Paulina St, how we’d sit in the bath forever; how we are still there, your hands on my belly as I lay my head back onto your shoulder, you kissing my neck. Running late and I slip into a 50’s Hawaiian muumuu fitted with a large orange blossoms print and low cut bust, your brunette curls falling to your chin, nude zipping me in with a nibble to my earlobe.

You were here, just there, behind the last rack, in the pocket of a black silk chiffon dress that I wore to our divorce hearing. I found a snapshot of you and letter you wrote as I was getting dressed and carried it with me like a reliquary to our last goodbye; you looked gaunt, yet, still beautiful, all tall and pallid, gone but there as a corpse wet from the river with a trout in your left hand.