Wool Against the Knuckle

In the attic's close air,

dust motes swimming,

I dug through boxes, labeled

in my mother's careful hand.

My knuckles brushed against it,

rough, thick,

the undyed wool,

a scratch against the skin

that wasn't pain,

but a kind of sudden remembering.

The same heavy weight,

the same lanolin scent

like sheep and old sunlight,

from a blanket on a narrow bed

when the house was vast

and sleep was a deeper thing.

My fingers clenched, then softened,

just feeling it.