Black Vest

  by Carol Sanger    

    She called me 
to look at it, unrolling it carefully 
like something live might fall out.
	   Tess Gallagher


She looped the black vest over her arms 
and unlocked a suitcase of memories so strong 
I had to close my eyes.  I’ve waited years 
for grief  to find me, to take me at the knees.  
Strange that it’s come wrapped in a poem 
about a dead man, when my father 
wasn’t a black vest kind of guy. 

But I don’t know that for sure since 
I never went through his closet. 
My mother sorted his clothes alone. 
That life is over, she said. 
Goodwill’s coming this afternoon.

The poem lies open in his red chair
as grainy memories sort themselves 
into black and white and I look 
for stray marks among his books,  
put on his glasses to feel his knife-blue eyes, 
peer into the mirror to see what he saw 
when he looked at me.