I wear my Father’s shirt sometimes
To bed.
Though it’s been six long years since
He passed;
Leaving me an orphan to parent myself,
An only child sans siblings.

I wear my Father’s shirt sometimes
To bed.
Made of rayon when it was a break-through fabric,
A ‘60’s body-clinger style with stiff Beatles collar ‘n cuffs,
And bold prints now faded to muted tones of
Vintage postcards proclaiming having a great time,
Yes, wish you were here…

I wear my Father’s shirt sometimes
To bed.
Silken soft, mellow hugging with familiarity,
The comfort of the known, so secure in a distant past.
As when I was but a wee babe, but he so big and strong
Rocked me in his arms sing-songing softly
“Aah, aah baby. Daddy loves his baby.”
To slumber so sweet.

I wear my Father’s shirt sometimes
To bed.