I worked hard the last two years, sorting through my mother’s things.
I really have.
But the clothes, oh my goodness, the clothes.
When my mother was killed, we took two dumpsters of clothes to Goodwill.
I kept some things for maternity clothes, and then got rid of four bags of that last year when we found out it was Cancer causing the miscarriages.
That was hard.
Last winter I got rid of more of her summer things that I never actually wore or that didn’t fit, and that felt like an accomplishment.
But today I finally had a chance to go through the last of my favorite memory clothes… You know, the ones that don’t really fit and I am not going to really wear, but are ones I have specific memories attached with, even hugs that seem misty now.
It was time.
I was ready.
It stung more than I expected, but I finally dug out the last four bags of clothes that aren’t really mine and don’t bring her back. Besides, I look like a clown when I try to wear her clothes.
I even got rid of her shoes, even the ones she was wearing that day, even the tennis shoes I always threatened to steal.
But they don’t really fit me, and they aren’t really mine, and she’s not here anymore, not like that.
Maybe that’s what makes it okay now.
I have a testimony now, that she is here, very much here, and she doesn’t need shoes to hang around.