You Left This Here

You brought the towel from home. The yellow stripe

faded to nearly white. I'd know it anywhere—

I didn't say so, because the type

of week we were having didn't leave much air

for recognition. Seven days of almost.

Of careful. You caught your Tuesday flight.

I found it on the handle—still a ghost

of your last morning, folded, damp, held tight

with more care than we gave to anything

we said. I've washed it. I've moved it twice.

The fold came back.

I don't know what to do with that.