To the roommates of my youth
I miss you most when I see a picture
of you in a dress I don’t recognize.
In a necklace your husband probably gave you
but I’ve never seen.
We used to assemble our outfits
from the collective closet—her
dress, my scarf, your bracelet—
we’d all give pieces to each other
before entering the world.
Somewhere in my closet, I still
have that sweater you wore to an interview.
The shoes from your second date.
I have a few grey hairs now, do you?
My hands have begun to look like my mother’s
did when I was a girl. Slightly softer. Slightly looser.
Children changed my body
(and probably yours too).
Children changed my closet
(and probably yours too).
But I see your picture and I’m sad
for a dress I’ve never felt and proud
of the outfit you’ve assembled
on your own.
*
Kaitlyn Newbery is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling. Her works have recently been published by Amethyst Review, Calla Press, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Sunlight Press, and forthcoming in Thimble Magazine.
