Mom told me she was saving them
in case she gained weight again,
proud to hide them away,
to shove them up through the small square hole
in the ceiling;
where all the things
we can’t let go of live.
Jeans once worn tight
against a discontent belly,
I watched her mark the boxes
with an aromatic thick permanent marker
I wondered about
I knew I’d never have these boxes myself
and that I’d still have to outgrow their contents.