I found the note after I’d already
given the sweater to Goodwill: a list
of things meant for me. Black wool
shaped like an open seedhusk,
embroidered with tiny villages–
shacks and sheep, little blue ponds and
haystacks. Rainbow threaded thick
like a winter coat, no buttons and I
thought I wouldn’t wear it, this
bright place naming me.

I sifted her shells, beads, wooden fish,
green plaid tablecloth, sideways
bread knife, black lacquered
room divider behind which the nurse
had given her a sponge bath,
sapphire ring, a handwritten few pages
from when I was a baby after she left my dad,

how the townspeople judged her
for being divorced, how she played pinball
at the local bar and wasn’t looking for anyone,
just loved pinball, didn’t like beer,
just needed to get away.

I misremember the sweater’s hemmed fields,
dream fresh goats and fishermen. Farmers
expand their orchards, red fruits
swell and purl. I follow the long seam
of twilight into the village, low river
hushing me, her life like woodsmoke
drifting the wool black night
under the silver disorder of heaven.