By Jeff Reid

Why would anyone buy a pair of used underwear?
I ask myself as I search through a bin
of miscellaneous clothing at Goodwill.
A young woman next to me,
dressed in fluffy pink bedroom slippers
and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt,
rifles through men’s boxers and used bras,
looking for a matching ski glove.
I envision her on the apex of a mountain,
the wind whipping through her peroxide blonde hair,
the chorus of “Freebird” playing in the background.
I think back to the blizzard of 1968,
44 inches of snow fell that January,
Carver Elementary School was closed for a month.
My father had just started a new job
and money was tight.
My sister and I survived that winter
on hand- me- downs
given to us by relatives in Covington,
a paper mill town on the West Virginia border.
I remember romping around in knee-deep snow
wearing a pair of my cousin Hank’s
rolled up dungarees and Fruit of the Loom briefs,
a pair of his old tube socks for mittens.
I remember the warmth of my cousin Junior’s
oversized army jacket,
discarded after he returned home from Vietnam.
I long for those adventures—
days spent conquering
the snow covered hills on trashcan lids,
dodging snowballs and the large frozen stalactites
that fell from the porch eaves.
A bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup and
hot cocoa waiting for me inside.
The melodious tone of the woodstove
when fed a new piece of hickory.
Of going to bed with my transistor radio
tuned to the local rock station,
the latest school closings announced between songs.
Tonight after my children are fast asleep,
I will sift through drawers filled
with freshly laundered boxers and socks,
all folded neatly and sorted by color,
lay out my blue suit and tie,
and prepare for another day of work.

Jeff Reid works as a freelance photographer and journalist at Smith Mountain Lake. Reid majored in English literature and creative writing at Randolph College (formerly Randolph-Macon Woman's College) and Boston University.