It only took a sweater. Final piece,
last remnant of him, found in a box on
the top shelf of the wardrobe, dark blue on
light – cashmere memory, so soft, no drab fleece
for her lost love. He lived for the best, each
item needed be of luxury (con
to himself, given his history, non-
privileged as it was). Her mind had no peace
in understanding why he chose her. No,
she knew – her family knew – the why, the how.
She was his best prize, the gold medal so
eagerly sought to put from his mind low
thoughts of past. She’d been duped, been dumb. She now,
with relish, threw that sweater in the bin.
[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]
[Image sourced from Poshmark.com]