I live in a 70’s era brick ranch which was built in a time when closets and bathrooms were allowed the same amount of square footage, and neither is generous. The only extra closet in the house is filled, year-round, with suit jackets and winter coats which won’t bear folding into plastic storage bins. So twice a year, once in spring and again in the fall, I make the climb up complaining, collapsible stairs, into my attic to retrieve our stored clothes.
“Changing out the closets”, as I’ve come to refer to this laborious task, is not a chore I enjoy, which serves to explain why I’ve worn the same two pairs of sandals for the better part of the last two weeks. But, as April wanes into May, spring has taken hold with plans to hang around for at least a couple of weeks before summer begins, in earnest. I’ve spent two full days in my shirt sleeves, with no need for a jacket or shawl of any kind. The time has come. It’s a solitary task, affording lots of time to think, and lots of open space for memories to fill.
This year I am especially surprised by the number of shirts I possess that carry the University of Florida logo. I have one fleece vest, three sweatshirts, three long sleeved tees, two baseball jerseys, and countless t-shirts. Over the years, Roger has expressed his relief in the knowledge that when his imagination fails him, he can always go to the sporting goods store to buy my gift. Perhaps I should help him with more hints.
I wavered this year over whether or not to keep the brown suede skirt. It’s cut on the bias, western style, and the one time I wore it I felt a little like Annie Oakley. The only acceptable shoe to wear with this skirt is, of course, a western boot. Fortunately, I own three pairs. Unfortunately, the skirt doesn’t quite meet the boots and I find that swath of skin, hosed or not, unsightly. But, it’s a great skirt. I’m keeping it.
I bought a pair of boots last year on Ebay. They were fawn colored, high-heeled, and designed by Tommy Hilfiger. When they arrived, I found the heel to be just a little higher than I’d imagined, but they were beautiful. I wore them this winter to a lunch date with my father. As the host beaconed me follow him to the corner where I saw my father sitting, I surveyed the twenty feet of uneven stone flooring and prayed I wouldn’t land in a heap at someone’s feet. Each step felt like I was walking on tip-toe on a very slick surface. At the time, I made a mental note to wear them more often to accustom my feet while scuffing the slick off the bottoms. I didn’t. But, I might next year.
A red and white sailor’s top went directly from bin to the charity pile. My sailor girl days are long over…
I removed a gauzy black jacket from the hanger while admiring it, yet again. It is one of my favorite pieces of clothing. Sheer black nylon is accented by the pinks and greens of hand painted flowers on splotches of black velvet. Beads of differing sizes hang from the hem, continuing up both sides and around the neck. I realized today that, at first glance, one might think it a piano shawl. Loath to knowingly perch upon glass beads, I have worn the jacket very little. Perhaps with some alterations, I might find a place to drape it.
When I ordered the black and gold, ruffled blouse, I had no idea it was constructed of netting. It has ridden the rail in my closet for almost a year. I can’t imagine wearing it anywhere other than a dark bar. I can’t imagine myself in a dark bar.
I kept the blue turtleneck, though I haven’t worn it in several years. I don’t like the feeling of anything against my neck. But blue is one of Shane’s team colors, and some of those football games are played in frigid weather. I might wear it underneath something else…
It saddened me to find my blue and pink, argyle sweater. I bought it new in the fall, and wore it just once before it got lost amidst the racks. It really is cute. I wish I’d worn it more. There’s always next year…
And, that’s when the thought popped into my head, “What if this is the last time you pack these clothes? What if the next time this bin is opened by someone else who won’t appreciate the style in your gray patent lace-up pumps, or the cuteness of your sweaters? What if the next person who opens this bin just sees you, the memory of you?”
I allowed myself just a moment of sadness, more for the person left to collect my effects than for me, and then just one more, one more moment to lament my loss; the loss of invincibility. Life, now, is finite. The end, whether it be ten, twenty, or even fifty years away is as real as the breath I’m breathing right now. For the rest of the day I’ll be looking for a place to store that.
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Are We There Yet? 
