a shawl

oxblood, with paisleys in tobacco and small black drops. a fine wool, woven thin enough to read a candle through, and a deep fringe whose knots have not slipped in a hundred and thirty years. it came from a city no one in this house has ever visited.

it has been worn at four weddings and two funerals across three generations. the last wearing was at her own small mourning: pinned at the throat with a brooch that has since been lost. afterwards it was folded with intent — corners exact, the fringe combed — and placed on this shelf, and then it stayed.

the cupboard smells faintly of camphor and faintly of cedar; the shelf above holds an embroidered pomegranate, the shelf below holds the mourning dress it was last worn against.

field-note: a single short black hair caught in the third paisley, exactly where the wearer's nape sat.