I folded clothes as my mother lay dying—
the shirts she once would have pressed,
the socks that once knew her careful hands.
Outside, the maple trees shed their leaves
like silent confessions.

I stacked her sweaters in trembling towers,
soft monuments to warmth.
Each crease a small surrender,
each fold a way of saying
I am still here, doing what you taught me—
make neat what can be made neat.

The room hummed with machines
and whispered prayers.
Her breath, a choppy tide
pulling farther
and farther from shore.

I smoothed the cotton,
tucked in the corners of a life
coming undone.
The scent of detergent rose,
pungent, vibrant, like the leaves,
and for a moment I could believe
that order meant control,
that fabric could hold the shape of love.

When the time came,
I set the last shirt down,
palms open, empty—
ready to learn
how to live
without instructions.

In honor of Mom, 1945-2022.