I invited my sister over recently to help me clear out my clothing closet. I get emotionally attached to clothes, like the t-shirt I wore to my first 5K and the sweater my husband bought me while he still thought shopping for clothes was romantic.
She’s very good at “Get rid of that thing.”
We pulled tops and pants out of my closet until we got to a particular jacket.
Dust as thick as plaster powder made the shoulders furry, and the buttons screamed tarnished but not cool enough to be vintage.
She pulled the jacket off the hanger. “You still have this?”
“You made it. I thought I should keep it.” She had a side hustle custom-decorating blazers and had told me I needed to buy one. So I did.
“Uh-huh. How old is it?”
We did the math. It was the same age as her oldest son. Who was married. With a teenager of his own.
She scowled. “When’s the last time you wore it?”
“Maybe I don’t exactly remember.”
She pinched the dust on the lapel and studied it. “Looks like a few years.”
I examined the jacket, taking in all the silver buttons she’d hand-sewn on. The felt edging. The lace trim.
“Great workmanship. Do you want it, since you made it? A memento of your business?” I pushed the jacket toward her.
You’d have thought it had the plague, the way she pushed it away. “No way.” A little dust floated into the air and made her cough. “Get rid of that thing.”
She glared and pointed at the discard bag.
My hands slowly opened. In it went.
Then I sneezed.
I wouldn’t miss the dust.
And, considering how often I wore it, I wouldn’t miss the jacket either.