My Mother’s Closet

I had a fascination with your dresses — the greens, brocades, the belted shapes which spoke of you more poignantly than the photos in their careful frames. Your shoes were their own country, the heels, satins, the inexplicable mud — I scraped them with small fingernails, marveling at the gorgeous debris, wishing I had a microscope. I searched your handbags, examined them for signs, evidence — where you were going, where you had been: tickets, lipstick, inked hieroglyphics, a broken comb. I even smelled your stockings, sniffing at the crotches like a dog, frantic for any trace of you, my eyes raking their length, wondering at ladders, searching for clues. My father came upon me once, cross-legged on the floor, his sad smile telling me more than any detection — he took my hand, and closed the door.