Sweater
by Niku Rice
I wear your sweater often now, unwashed
with silver hair still clinging like tinsel,
treating it like some holy thing in a way
you would have hated given any choice
in the matter, but you’ve been swept up,
a leaf in the wind with no say in the final
song being the birthday song in Farsi
on an iPhone, or the last word being
my name for you calling back in free fall,
with your hands suddenly cold and your breath
too calm for this world full of so much living,
you land unseen in a pile of other
people’s memories of who you were, as
a child with a string of siblings beneath
you, as a young man in sharp uniform,
as husband to a European bride
who would care for you the rest of your days
until you wondered where her husband was
and hoped he would be back soon to get her.
I wear this sweater and reach inside its
pockets, half expecting to find a pack
of cigarettes, a lighter, a tissue,
and find nothing but my own lint as I wear
your sweater in your chair on the deck
trying to see palms trees as you would have,
through smoke, music waltzing through you,
sometimes through the lips you used to kiss
my children on top of their heads, inhaling
their laughter and letting it echo like
my voice, forever stuck in an empty
pool in Tehran, seeing the persimmons,
but unable to reach them without you.
Niku Rice was born in Iran, grew up in California, and now lives in the suburbs of Detroit with her family. She graduated from UC Davis and is currently a doula and childbirth educator.
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