A box for good will

As a friend, I had come to help
yet one more time
and I watched as she set
the cardboard box on the floor.
It was labeled for Goodwill,
penned in large black letters.

From deep in the closet,
she brought out an old blue suit.
It had faded over the years,
but I saw in her eyes
the memories still had not.

Softly, she smoothed the sleeves
that dangled flat and empty.
Then she stroked the slack trousers
on the smooth wooden hanger.
Gently, she brushed
the dust from the collar and lapel,
and then I heard her sigh.
Her resolve had melted away.

Again we talked and remembered.
We spoke of long ago,
how the sleeves encircled her
in warm secure hugs,
and the trousers had covered
lean muscular legs,
legs slightly bowed,
legs that loved to dance,
and what she missed the most
--the heart that beat below
the lapel of the old blue suit,
the heart that beat with love for her.

For nearly fifty years,
the suit had stood sentinel,
loyally guarding both her
and those memories,
and I watched as she carefully
replaced the suit and closed
the closet door.

Through quiet tears
she asked once more
how all of that could ever fit
in a box for Goodwill.