The day my father died, his favorite flannel shirt
held my mother’s hand, listened to her waterfall

of memories. His trousers tidied the bedroom
and the rest of the house. My father’s shoes were

dancing in the closet; his choir of socks chanting
in the top dresser drawer. The Polish magazines

and newspapers on the bedside stand whispered
where he’d stashed extra cash. She was so grateful

she cried, not for the money, but that his things
loved her as much as they’d loved him.