Packing My Books

I’m wearing an old shirt
a half-size too large
that my brother gave me.
The books go into boxes
as I think of you
at the other end
of the world,
or so it seems
tonight.
Dust brings tears
to my eyes and dries
my throat so I stop
for a drink of water
and remember a day
when I was fifteen
and home from school,
sick, wearing an old shirt
of my father’s, and how
good it felt, so soft
against my hot skin.

This article appears in August 2008.