Out of Season

The storage bin lid came off with a sound like a gasp.

I pulled out the navy wool, the one with the missing belt,

and the air in the bedroom became 2014.

It smells like cedar and that perfume—the one that stung,

the one that smelled like a cold, metal railing.

I buried my nose in the collar. I’m not sentimental,

it’s just the dust.

But there’s a hair caught in the weave,

stiff and silver-gray, definitely not mine.

It’s stuck there like a piece of wire, a tiny, jagged truth

about a winter I thought I’d finally thrown away.