It hangs in the very depths
of his closet. Heavy dust edges
the top of the old-fashioned
garment bag. I’m on the hunt,
in a “clean up” mood, so I lift
the bag from its resting place
like a newly unearthed relic,
unzip it and ease the suit
into the light of day.

It feels much too heavy
for a California climate.
The midnight blue fabric strikes
me as funereal; cuffed pants
convey another millennium.
I feel something stiff in one pocket,
remove two tickets to the
Yuba City Rugby Club Banquet,
Saturday, April 26, 1987.

My Goodwill collection sack
is temptingly close. Will he miss the suit?
Ask where it is, not having worn it
for decades? Will I lie if he asks about it,
blithely saying,
Oh, we recycled it long ago. It didn’t fit
any more, remember?  
Or maybe I’ll tell him the truth at our
upcoming 50th anniversary celebration—
I never liked that suit!


© by Norma Wightman.
Used with the author’s permission.