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A quote: “Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold, happiness dwells in the soul.” ~~ Democritus
I’ll start with a story …
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You always laughed that the only way to get the closets cleaned out was to move.
No. There’s another. I stand in the closet, looking at your side, clothes you couldn’t bear to give away … the silk blouse from our honeymoon in France, one maternity jumper you wore with each of our sons …
Clothes sketched a timeline of our life. Drawers full of scaves and sweaters marking the seasons. Even the silly Christmas sweaters for the annual family portrait. And shoes? Silver slingbacks for New Year’s Eve parties, sensible heels, ballet flats, sandals. Oh yes, once the kids were off to college, there was that cottage we rented on the beach one summer, you painted your toenails deep red and wore a flowered wrap dress with nothing underneath and we were young again.
All these things, fabric ghosts full of memory.
But you’re gone now, wearing the gold-threaded dress you wore at our 50th anniversary party. When they dressed you, they had to gather it in you had lost so much weight, looking so small and fragile against the white satin.
They’re just clothes now. I’m packing up donations, thinking about when someone delights at the “vintage” denim dress, it will just be a dress and not the memory of our first date.
That lives and will die with me.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
Cameron says: Great Granddad’s estate was held in a trust for me until I turned twenty-one. It was kept immaculate all those years, owing to him apparently making good investments and being able to pay for the maintenance.
I’m not sure why he left it to me; I was about ten when he died. I just remembered a kindly old man who was smart enough to keep up with my mind. Through his encouragement, I studied science, math, languages and learned how to fight with and without weapons.
The master bedroom is a shrine to the 40s. The clothes are old, the furniture is well kept and-
Wait. I touched a panel on the wall and it swung inward. I found a workshop with two 1911s in a case that looked like they were waiting for me. I found a coded notebook but I knew what it said. Names, phone numbers, addresses. Just inside the room was a trench coat and black hat hung on a coat rack. Then finally then I saw the words written up above.
Herba Sceleris Fructus Amarum Fert. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. I knew the legends and it looked like I was taking over.
Every garment in these closets has a story. Not surprising, because they’re the ones I’ve kept for all these years, when so many others went to the rag bag or the thrift store.
But now I have to choose what to take with me and what to leave behind. The mass allowances the Kitties give voluntary settlers may be a lot bigger than anyone going to Mars would’ve gotten, but they’re still pretty limiting when you’re the sort of person for whom possessions are prized.
There’s the shirt I wore the night the high school football team won the championship. It was a good-luck charm for years afterward, and I’d wear it any time something important happened, until it started showing enough wear that I wouldn’t dare let it be seen.
And here’s the jacket I won in a drawing. Sure, it’s advertising some brand that doesn’t even exist any more — I think they got bought out a few years before First Contact — but it was a good friend to me when I went to school up north and needed something heavier than I’d ever needed back home.
So many memories, so many choices. And the more of them I take, the less I can take of other things. Do I take Great-grandma’s Depression-ware candy dish that was always on her dining room table when I was growing up, or the dress boots I wore to the party where I met my future mentor?
Why do I feel like, no matter what I do take, I’ll end up wishing I’d chosen something I left behind?
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