Echoes

After the shower I threw my towel
lazily on top of the pile of laundry,
it made a noise against
the old metallic wardrobe—my god
grandmother’s—how did it get here?

I’ve never seen it when she was alive,
it was inside her room, I’ve only been inside
a couple of times, it was always dark
with the smell of baby powder
accidentally scattered on her soft grey
carpeted floors.

Everything seemed soft back then
when I was in her apartment with my mom;
her rouge sofas, the many plants she has near the windows,
and the cold air blowing from the air conditioner…
even the skyline
from her window was delicate.

But I don’t remember the wardrobe,
I wonder if it was used, or
did it sit alone like her,
widowed with only spotted-skin history
as her company.

This wardrobe that I’ve never touched,
that I’ve never paid much attention to,
it’s so heavy now;
with the dead air of her apartment,
the dead carpet, the dead plants, and her
living voice in the hollow
forgotten space within;

I wonder if it waits
to be touched,
if it was the caress of my towel
that made it chime,
almost
a whimper.