Rubbing my second son’s back

My mind snags onto the pattern of his onesie

It’s the one my mom bought for my first son.

He wore it three years ago

At the beginning of this president’s term.

He filled it out more, his pudgy arms and legs,

All rolls and gleeful squeals.

This little one has outgrown its’ length and his toes have long curled up

Against the footies

While loose air pockets fold in the purples and white fabric.

He doesn’t squeal or shriek as much

Instead he’s like a little bird.

It’s strange to love two people who have worn the same clothes.

It’s not the same, but imagine if you had a lover, and everything they wore

Belonged to your last lover.

This bit of cloth, held the sulit of a small backyard full of bamboo and plums

HE 2was photgorahped in it from every angle back then

Im looking at the fabric, noticing it may be the last time this little one wears it

Forcing me to face the future.

Where I will fold it and put it into a plastic bin.

Will think of it wistfully when I decide to donate it,

Or hold on to it longer

Perhaps or a third child?

Or just until we move maybe when they are teens

And I walk into the living room of that new home holding it

And no one looks up from their screens when

I tell the story of the onesie,

Which carried my little loves when they were six months old.

It’s a heaviness close to grief

Holding all these clothes

Of my little loves

In my mind.