Why I Keep It

My sister got in the car and asked

why I keep

the sweater from 2015 on the seat,

holes in the elbows, like I'm afraid

to let the past just fade.

I couldn't tell her:

it's not even mine.

It still smells like someone else—

their laundry soap, their skin,

and I can't wash that out,

can't donate it, can't let go,

can't do what a person should do

when they need to move forward.

She thinks I'm sentimental.

I'm just holding on

to the last thing that still smells like them.