… I now surrender to the will of the wind.
I fold the futon bed where my son slept on winter break,
fold flannel sheets, touch fabric that touched him.
I press to my chest a stack of his T-shirts, warm from the dryer,
with his university’s name festooned in maroon and gold.
A lod of white laundry bleaches his undershirts, one sweat-stained
a sweet-corn yellow, the color of baby pee in cotton diapers.
I add two socks into a lump sum, press handkerchiefs into squares
the same size as notes slipped by a smitten girl into his pockets.
I gather, bend, and bag power cords that charge his gadgets.
Before I can enfold him in my arms and kiss him,
he packs his belongings and tall frame like a fold-up ladder
into a friend’s small car, waves and departs again.
I wander through the house, visit his empty room,
find nothing left to fold except my hands.