Sizing Down

The phone call was short—

a question about a wrench, a click, then dial tone.

I went to the box in the attic

to find the flannel shirts he left behind.

My mother said I’d fill them out eventually.

I pull the cotton over my head,

but the cuffs are still heavy and dark with old grease.

They hang two inches past my fingertips

like the hands of a ghost

still reaching for the things I was never allowed to touch.