Inventory of the Drawer

The bubble wrap pops under my knees

like small, sharp bones.

I am looking for a reason in her things,

but finding only stones.

Behind the folded slips and stockings,

a Ziploc bag crinkles in my grip,

smelling of lavender and the slow rot

of a basement’s damp, steady drip.

Three rusted washers, heavy and useless,

and a receipt for a toaster she hated.

She saved the paper, she saved the scrap,

while the rest of us simply faded.

Why keep the hardware for a ghost?

Why track the tax on a burnt slice of bread?

I sit on the floor with the plastic

and the things she never said.