I’ve procrastinated this year. The winter clothes have been plunged among my summer garb; the forgotten, never worn garments, still hanging with tags for an event that never occurred and the ‘what was I thinking’ dress. There are also the hopeful jeans that still don’t fit, the too young tops, too cute to part with.
There is a blouse I wore when I spent a day teary and blowing my nose, a bathing suit cover up that never did see a beach, my favorite cut-off shorts that I wear at home, myriad leggings that have become
my crazy everyday uniform.
Then there are beautiful sweater jackets hanging, worn maybe twice before I retired; an eternal epitaph to my business wear, along with my collection of skirts in varying shades of greys and black; for all
occasions; except for the ones I don’t have anymore. Finally, there are the panic clothes. The pieces I bought to make myself feel better on a hard day, in colours that make my skin look old, yellow and tired.
However, I still fondly reach for one of my well-worn black cardigans; my second- skin friends that I always find on the backs of chairs all over my home, as a salute to my hot flashes that never really stopped coming.
My wardrobe hangs as a museum of my life; that life and following that life; and my present life. It is hard to sort through my clothes this year. I’ll do it when I’m ready to say goodbye to a chronology of my life.
© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019