Things That Cannot Be Repaired

by Beverly Osborne


This sweater was my father's
its swiftly disappearing shape
belonged to him.

Cuff to shoulder, seam by seam
it has beome formless, shadowy
as if it has forgotten its purpose

I keep it less for warmth than comfort
there is urgency in its rescue.

I can't bring back the sound or smell or touch of him
but this old wool does much on a bitter day
to soothe my scattered soul.

Perhaps I need to accept there is no mending
nor really any need.
I cannot bring a piece of cloth to whole
and some things can't be lost.

Some things will stay with me long after
the last piece of yarn has quietly unraveled.


January 08