after “The Blue Dress” by Victoria Chang

I wear grandma’s collared shirt— it mostly hangs on
            a blue hanger in my closet, fabric continuing
to thin with time, beneath the earth like her body,
            as if I have worn her all my life.

I wear her ring on my finger, hold the metal
            she used to fiddle with, polish the diamond,
admire the band. Remove her when I wash my hands.
            Check to feel she’s still there. She held on

when leukemia wore her, through divorce,
            during the war, when she lost
three babies. Grief is wearing her
            shirt on my back like a haunting.

Grief brushes my skin like cotton,
            striped like her mother’s hand sewn lines.
I keep moving beyond panels of stitches–
            Her mother’s mother threads through me.

I’m writing stories for them, trying
            to fill days with her belongings. I never
heard her say goodbye. There is a hole
            in her shirt. There is a hole in me.