Adieu T0

I didn’t give birth to them.

They’re not blood relatives.

Why these pangs of sorrow as I fold them ever so gently into the brown box for adoption?

I can’t believe they will ever be treated as well as they were hanging limply in my closet waiting to be resurrected for a frivolous night on the town.

I know those ended not last week, nor last year. Nor can I blame Covid.

And I also realize that if miraculously such a momentous occasion arose (a wedding, a testimonial, anything) they would no longer be appropriate nor welcomed.

Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere in the pleated knee length skirt. Ye gads, my Mother would lock me in a closet if she saw me wearing that.

Nor will they ever be loved as much as I have treasured each one during the decades we shared.

Sadly, some of them have never been introduced to their new surroundings.

They even traveled with me when I relocated to a new home.

Ah yes,I know that I moved four years ago, but in my defense, the time did go quickly.

Yet, I touch each item with reverence as it leaves its long time home with a lavender sachet attached.

I question if there are therapists for those of us who attach themself emotionally to old, discarded and unusable clothes? Or perhaps an over the counter supplement to aid with the emotional withdrawal once the box is sealed.

If so, I desperately need an appropriate contact number or information.

I am acutely aware of that as the large brown box becomes overloaded with archaic clothing going back not quite to the stone age, but close.

And yet I realize with a bit of satisfaction,. both my Mother and my daughter would be quite proud of me today.