It is all about habits, your grandpa has worn checksforever, his pa too.folding laundry, I come across a fluorescent yellowand ink blue collared shirt.it fits into my palm, sleeves buttoned and turned inwards, unwritten dress codes.I indulge time, lingering longer, hanging cottons onhooks for air drying.I don’t want to leave, nor return this shirt on a stackpiling high on your shelf.realizing it also has a pocket, wondering what a tenmonth old would keep inside.gazing at the blueberry stain as I vacantly rub a wetQ tip over it, again.
Suddenly it all makes sense.the crisp linen smoothenedits window panes, perfectlypatterned
hematologya whispered listof ancestors.
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