Shirts, skirts, socks
In the far corner of her cupboard there is a shaggy pile of clothes that have remained untouched for years. Shirts and skirts and socks that have settled so well into their folds that it is no longer possible to iron them out. They will never be worn again. Now that their wearers have grown and gone. Their once small hands now too large to slide down the hollow of the sleeves. Their bodies too big to be contained in tiny frocks. But she guards her little pile fiercely. And on days when she fears she is losing her grip on her memory, she buries her face in it. Mingled with the moth balls is the faint scent of her children. From the time when they needed her more.