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
They are flannel,
a matching top
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 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