Satin

The multi-colored satin hangers, in the waning hours
of an estate sale, failed to entice hungry crowds
who loudly pawed the furniture and tools of someone who
might never have invited them for coffee, or a swim
nearby. The lake community, perhaps, had mourned
for months before the relatives had finished with dividing
up the best, and all the rest was priced to sell.
The signs were many, promising a bigger treasure trove
than what was left when I arrived the second day. A weary
woman saw me looking in the closet.
Inquiring what the hangers would be going for,
she said a quarter each, no two, it's time we packed it in
(that last remained unspoken but I heard it from the lines
around her smile). And so I bought them, but not all.
A few I left behind so that the closet, missing a dead
woman whose name I'll never know,
and missing the weight of her clothes
and missing her lingering scent
will be, perhaps, there in the weeks to come,
or even longer in the present market,
forgotten when the house is finally sold.
They hang there patiently and wait in darkness
for some mother's loving hands
to hang Sunday dresses for some sweet little girl
remembering that long ago, their lady was one too.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017