Last Autumn, I gave several of my husband's dress shirts

and plaid flannel shirts to our grandsons

who seemingly have become young men overnight.

I threw out worn T-shirts, keeping two

for cleaning rags that have grown smaller and smaller

as the bleach breaks them down to threadbare.

It's a gradual letting go which I've received

unasked for advice regarding the timing

from both strangers and family;

as if they do not know why some days

I'll wear one of his dark Hawaiian shirts,

black with Escher-like goldfish;

as if they do not understand why some nights

and days I've worn the last pajama bottoms he wore,

his name in black indelible ink on the tag.

Yesterday, I gave our older son an Alpaca-lined

black raincoat that was his father's, only

missing one button and him inside it.

They say grief is a process; they just don't tell you

the smallest details, like what to do with his single socks

or a hole at the toe that breaks my heart unexpectedly.