Two cotton slips, the larger hung on a hanger, lace at the bodice,
and the child’s, cross-stitched, draped over a chair.
Washed so often they are nearly transparent.
Someone must have packed them, folded into almost nothing.
That’s what my grandmother said—folds into nothing.
As if everything could be carried in a suitcase if the cloth were fine enough.

Not her family Bible, each page thin as a slip of cotton
but so many pages, heavy with inked dates,
births, marriages, deaths; the cover unyielding.
Nor the deliberate sound of the fires,
their bitter odor, their flames engulfing the village.
Could not be folded away, then unpacked and aired on a hanger.