"Don't forget your hanky," Mom said
almost eighty years ago
as I went out the door,
and I think that's why
I keep a generous supply
clean and folded square
along with socks and underwear
in my middle dresser drawer.
When my brother Clifford died,
Mary Jo gave me an unopened pack
that Cliff had kept who knows how long.
I'm guessing a reminder
had sounded in his head, too,
so, having taken heed,
neither he nor I would be caught
unprepared.
Often enough a nose bleed
or a seasonal sneeze
would not be blocked
by paper tissue.
More lately, at weddings
when the couple vows . . .
"in sickness or in health,
for better or for worse,"
folded cloth absorbs my sobs.
Most often now, it's at memorials
whether for youth or aged alike
that I check my pocket
hoping to find that a hanky is there.
Tonight, though, cries of laughter arise
in surprise, with no need to be stifled,
but sputtering, slobbering
Great Grand Kids
find perchance most sacred use
for a hanky that catches it all.
Poet friend Don Bouchard's "Hanky" poem inspired me to write about some of my own hanky memories. Five years and four months have gone by since my beloved Janice left this life. I had expected my poem to be mostly "about" her, and she is indeed remembered in and between every line that I write, but she would be pleased to see what surprised me in this piece.