What She Left in It

The unit smelled like sealed air

and cold concrete.

Not like her. Not at all like her.

We moved things out in order—

dresser, side table, the armchair last.

I lifted the cushion

to make it lighter to carry

and there it was,

in the crease of the seat:

a hard candy, still wrapped.

Cellophane twisted at both ends.

I held it in my palm

while my mother went to get the dolly.

The chair was already on the truck.

It had been in that unit two years.

The candy had been there longer—

she'd put it there and forgotten,

or saved it for some afternoon

that didn't come.

The cellophane intact.

I didn't throw it away.

Didn't know what that meant.

Stood in the empty unit

with the candy in my hand,

the smell of cold concrete,

the chair gone.