Memento

The blue stuffed bear, five cars, a well-loved blankie. You left with all of them. But the cotton pants with the firetrucks—the pants you insisted on wearing every single day—I kept.

I needed to keep part of you with me, so I sent you off without them. You probably miss them.

They are more than a little worn; a testament to the miles you drove on your knees, pushing your plastic cars over quilted mountains. I put them away without washing. They still smell like you.

And when I brush them against my cheek, I hear your laughter.