As the days shrank and 
my limbs stretched, 
Mama pulled on a string 
that dangled from the closet ceiling. 
A wooden ladder collided with tile. 
Black trash bags were thrown down, 
and the smell of hot insulation 
knocked me to the ground. 
Plaid and paisley capris—
once my sister’s— were now for me. 
Mama’s bedroom became a field laden 
with hills of “maybes,” “donates” and “for keeps.” 
I pranced in denim and long sleeves 
that I would not need until November. 
Mama asked continually, 
while I scanned the mirror for my sisters,
“Does it really scream you?” 
Through open windows, August air 
carried a promising odor 
of orange and red—
a once distant cool was coming soon. 
I was waiting.
I waited to wear those memories 
of afternoons spent sifting and sorting, 
afternoons of just Mama and me.