Flannel Shirt

I'd never seen cotton bolls before a trip we took to Houston.
On our way home we stopped at the edge of this field,
where Carl cut some stalks for me. I still have them, in a vase.

Going through a closet, 

I found one of Carl's old flannel shirts

hanging among my jackets. 

Its subdued plaid - tan, 

dark red and olive green, 

reflected the outdoor style of the man.

The soft folds hold memories,

smells from his work, of smoke from bonfires, 

and sawdust, or oil from an engine.

I held it against my face, then

wrapped myself in the nubby fabric 

and lay on the bed for a while, 

his scattered pheronomes 

enveloping me one more time 

in his strong embrace

where I'd often sought shelter,

safe from the toxic cunts 

who ruled my office 

and made my work such hell.

I got up, folded the shirt, and

returned it to the dark drawer, 

where it lay, a carapace of the man

who protected me, who gave me courage. 

A reminder of the love not gone,

just in another place.