The Last Slipper

The smell of disinfectant fights the dust,

the stale air of a life suddenly paused.

My cousin and I, moving through the rooms,

opening cupboards, making slow, tired decisions.

We found it by the bed, under the window.

Her slipper, worn flat at the heel,

the soft, faded blue fabric.

Still holding the ghost of her foot's shape.

Too small to keep, too heavy to toss.

So it sat there, on the pile for donation,

with a chipped mug and a half-read paperback.

Another small, quiet thing,

waiting for its own end.