Felt, Like a Child's Finger

From dusty boxes, high above,

a holiday, a childhood love

still clung to threads, a faded red,

this stocking, meant for things unsaid.

My mother's hand, a careful stitch,

though sequins now refuse to hitch

to fraying pile, a silver loss.

It smells of attic, time, and moss.

Rough to the touch, yet soft it seems,

like half-forgotten, waking dreams.

I press it to my cheek, this patch

of worn-out comfort, a loose latch

on something small, and deeply felt.

Just fuzzy red, where secrets dwelt.