the slow evaporation of grief

when she died

i put

her hairbrush in a box.

her perfume,

her rings, a necklace,

a watch.

i stored pictures of her

and me

together

as we rowed across

a lake.

i stuffed in

the red scarf

she used to wear

that reminded her of 
Boston.

a wool hat

and sunglasses.

for months i thought i'd

never

get over her,

the loss.

but now, twenty years

forward,

i wonder where i put

the box.