The evening cools. The closet door needs oil, scraping in the track.

They are all there, orderly (somewhat) on the hangers. Their pockets are time capsules. They greet my fingertips with faded bits of February: a forgotten pen with a scribbled note to buy soap; a dinner receipt from a restaurant that has become a fusion something-or-other; a candy wrapper or popcorn kernel from a chill night when a flickering screen was all that kept away an unwanted solitude.

Hello, autumn. Hello, sweaters and jackets, coats and cardigans, which give my hands their old homes again.

Dear Vera
Will they take you to the park on this fine day?
Will you hide behind a tree and giggle?
Will you find a rock and hold it out for Mom to take,
or just give everyone a smile sweeter’n cake?
Today’s another day you may not remember:
the fresh fall air, the twigs in your hair,
or thoughts from your Pops which are following you there.