Today I cleaned out my closet because it needed it very, very badly. I've been purging as much crap as I can from the house lately. I suspect it’s because I think that if I keep on throwing out, at some point the sorrow and ache in my heart will accidentally get tossed in one of the “donate” bags and I’ll finally see the end of it.
Wouldn’t it be great if life worked that way? I’d bid this sadness a happy adieu in a heartbeat if I could. Well, if I could without somehow losing the memory of Thomas in the process.
I’ve also pictured uncorking an imaginary hole in the side of my head and letting all the darkness and pain ooze out of my brain before corking it back up and sealing it for good.
Alas, there’s no cork hole in the side of my head, and I know that the only stuff in the bags I’m readying for the Canadian Diabetes Association are clothes I’m now, mercifully, too small to wear (thanks to Weight Watchers I’m now 16.4 pounds lighter and one size smaller than I was on January 2nd).
To be honest, there’s some just plain ugly stuff in my donation bags along with the now-too-big pants. Seriously, there are a lot of “what the hell was I thinking” items in there. A wool, three-shades-of-fuschia sweater comes to mind.
Loud? Shriekingly so. But maybe it’ll tickle someone else’s fancy – and take up space in their closet instead. It was itchy, but it served me well…at least until I realized how loud it was.
You know, I think the other reason I’m purging these days is because Thomas has made me realize that the things I hang onto are just that – things. I’ve absorbed that lesson in a way I never really could before he came and went.
It’s easier to part with things when you were forced to part with a piece of your heart.
Anyway, I did an almost thorough job of the closet today. My half, anyway. I didn’t spend much time on the shelves, but I’ll get to that. And I’ll have to soon – the piles of t-shirts, sweaters, sweats and jeans threaten to avalanche down on me every time I step into the closet.
I don’t particularly want to die that way.
I actually sometimes worry about dying in a stupid way because I’d just hate for my loved ones to have to actually speak the words, “she was trying to dislodge the vanilla with a pasta fork while balancing on two phone books perched on top a chair when suddenly the baking soda tipped, rained powder down on her face, temporarily blinded her and caused her to lose her footing. She cracked her head on the refrigerator as she fell off the chair and died with her face in the cat bowl.”
How would they ever tell it with a straight face? Nope, can’t die that way. Won’t do it.
Geez, I’m all over the map tonight. I’m once again giddy with relief that we survived last week and that I’m finished with the “this time last year” exercise forever.
Thank God. And thank God for smaller pants, fuschia sweaters that someone else will love and a clean closet too.