Family tradition dictates that we change our wardrobes like the curtains into summer/winter segments marking half-years of our lives.
I put away the teeshirts, shorts and lightweight jackets into plastic bags and store them in a closet deep down in the bowels of the house. And up to daylight bring the long sleeved jerseys, sweaters, slacks and fuzziness of hats and gloves and other things that bear the winter well.
The scent of wool that wafts out like a spirit from the bags brings times and places of six months ago. I was here and wearing this, and this I wore when he was here and this one’s marked by indiscretion with a stubbornness that even spray detergents won’t erase.
The memories cling and layer in the cedared drawer, waiting to explore again, collect and make some more until the fabric of their lives and mine are weary worn in threads of gold. Side by side in straightened piles, they whisper all my secrets when the doors and drawers are shut and they are left alone in darkness to gossip through my life and so I’m loathe to trust their loyalty in Salvation Army bins.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology