The pants are a little too short.
The slight difference in our heights means there’s a breeze on my ankles. 
(Lies on drivers licenses will call us both 5’4” but I know I have outgrown 
my mother.)

They are flannel,
a matching top 
and bottom
all angry pink and plaid.

I dig through my backpack hoping to discover some t-shirt 
I know I did not pack, but— 
a library book
a tampon crushed and crumpled under my water bottle,

so I borrow pajamas for the night between hospital stays.

I still smell powder 
and sweat 
and clean, medical air.
Feel the feeling of a whisper in my lungs,
like that’s the volume at which I was made to speak. 

Casey is a mother now,
and I an aunt
in clothes too small

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