Clotheshorse

She is fascinated by the clothes hanging, nearly dry, on the clotheshorse. Clothes you hung there earlier today.

Your familiar black t-shirt (her mother bought it for you) hangs in front of all the other clothes, almost as if you are there, dangling upside down to make her laugh. She thinks of how the fibres of that t-shirt would normally sit so close to your skin’s warmth, borrowing your smell.

On the lower rungs, your socks retain something of the shape of your absent feet. The socks, like the feet they keep warm, are big and wide and often spend time inside sneakers or running shoes.

The pants hanging behind the t-shirt also leave clues about their wearer. They are worn in places and the fabric is soft: you are someone who has favourites.

Her clothes too are there. Nestled up next to yours are her t-shirts, socks and underwear. She imagines you hanging them, your face serious as you concentrate.

She leaves the room, not wanting to disturb your clothes while they quietly enjoy each other’s company. She wonders that you two can be together in this room while you are really absent from here and from each other. She smiles as she closes the door behind her.

Clotheshorse

sophmaree

Joined January 2008

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