Empty 2-10-10

His shirt is on a hanger. The sleeves are still rolled up, just the way he always wore them.... rolled because his arms were always too long and the sleeves always too short. Nearby sits the picture of him wearing it, smiling, a camera (as always) in one hand, a pen in his pocket, ever ready to copy what he sees, or give form to some idea swimming in his head.
I feel the fabric and it's heavy. 100% cotton, but thicker than it would be in California. Warmer. I put my face into it but I can't smell him. I'm not sure why I thought I could. I look down the arms and gather the fabric over my face. "Where are you?" I wonder.
Ridiculous. Did I think he was hiding in there somewhere.... hiding inside the sleeve? Is that where I thought he went?
Mom cries when she sees it, and so do I. I thought I'd put it on, but I can't. I think he might still come back and fill it up, fill me back up where I'm now half empty.