The smell of cinnamon takes me back
to the baking day we had before you left.

I climb atop an overturned 5-gallon bucket
to reach the top shelf in the carport
and the crate that holds your belongings.

Tremors visit my hands as I don your favorite jacket,
fold my arms across myself in an empty hug
and trace the outline of the heart patch on the elbow
as I weep.