This wool is too heavy for the bin but I can't keep it

This wool is too heavy for the bin, but I can't keep it.

I pulled it from the drawer and the scent hit my chest—

a mix of old cedar and the peppermint gum she liked,

and the faint, sharp tang of a laundry soap they don't make.

I held the collar to my face for a second too long,

breathing in a version of me that still had a place to go.

There’s a single silver hair caught in the weave,

a bright, metallic wire that refuses to be shaken loose.

It’s just a garment, a stack of sheep’s hair and dye,

but it smells like a house that was sold five years ago.

I fold it into the bag and pull the plastic drawstring,

trying to hold my breath until the memory stops moving.