Ruth Stone

When someone we love passes, their belongings remain, bearing witness to who they were.

Here’s a poem for your consideration by American poet Ruth Stone (June 8, 1915 – November 19, 2011).

Second-Hand Coat

I feel
in her pockets; she wore nice cotton gloves,
kept a handkerchief box, washed her undies,
ate at the Holiday Inn, had a basement freezer,
belonged to a bridge club.
I think when I wake in the morning
that I have turned into her.
She hangs in the hall downstairs,
a shadow with pulled threads.
I slip her over my arms, skin of a matron.
Where are you? I say to myself, to the orphaned body,
and her coat says,
Get your purse, have you got your keys?

--Ruth Stone