Buried Deep

You've been dead for 16 years now
nearly half my life
and I still have one of your shirts
a striped polo 
buried amongst clothes in my closet 
that are either too small 
or too bulky 
or splattered in paint.

Your shirt has seen
paint, mortar, sawdust
and my sweat
but somehow 
it's still your shirt.

Now the collar has become itchy
and makes my neck and mind burn
with thoughts of your death:

your car parked
on the side of a deserted
tree-lined highway
your head flooding
with love and betrayal
as you fumble blindly 
for the shotgun in your trunk.

When we heard the news
your sister and I walked for hours
and then sat on a curb
eating homemade vanilla cupcakes with sprinkles 
that our friend's mother always
had stockpiled in the freezer.

Your shirt 
with its itchy hot collar
still lays folded
on a shelf in my closet
buried deep.