“Which hand?” you asked,
hiding a tiny marble square.
Then you gave me the soap--
black lavender pure.
I inhaled, over and over,
as deep as I could,
“You’ll smell all the scent
out,” you laughed.
I’ve saved it for months,
on the sill of my window,
wrapped in crinkly
white paper.
Like the Flower Girl photos,
in our Fall wedding album,
it’s full of your laughter,
your tenderness and youth,
your splashes in the pool,
your patent leather shoes.
I inhale and remember,
you cut all your hair,
to give to a stranger,
a woman with bad news.
Now you’re moving to Memphis.
Pack your friends in your heart,
leave behind the Brownie dress,
put your cell phone on charge.
Give your teachers and neighbors
one of your big eyed sighs.
You’re moving to Memphis,
the Odyssey of your Mind.
