Life's Closet

Some closets are masterfully designed works of art displaying clothes by color, drawers for jewelry and an array of wooden hangers softly lit by the glow of chandeliers. I know this to be true because I’ve seen them pictured in magazines. I wonder if these people carefully put their secrets in shoeboxes and gingerly take them out on rare reflective occasions before sliding them back into place. Or do they lock treasured moments in cases and then throw away the key? Do they believe that time can be stored in places and spaces and revealed during whims of fancy?

I don’t know about other people and their closets. I only know that my closet will never be featured except perhaps in the before shots of a professional organizer. Life crashes on my shoulders when I go into my space. Lit by a single bulb hiding baking soda and foot deodorant, my closet contains pieces of life crammed in bulging dresser drawers, clothes sorted by size, and disaster preparedness items.

Life is captured in worn moments: a dress at a wedding; a suit at a funeral; faded Levis during a past marriage. Dreams are contained in the poster filled with cherubs wrapped around letters spelling Love. Beauty shines in the eyes of wild rain forest animals on a calendar. A mountain cabin on a creek in a 2006 Thomas Kincaid calendar symbolizes my family’s farm in the country. Bike gloves, weights and heart monitors await a sudden urge to exercise. A picture of Central Park crystallizes the fulfillment of a dream to visit New York City. A suit hangs ready for my sister to try on when she comes to town for an interview. I am mirrored in a Grandmother’s golden gift similar to the one resting in her aqua room lined with placemats of the Smoky Mountains.

Standing on dirty carpet, I reach for one box in my closet and everything falls down. Memories and time simply cannot be contained and blur together in an onslaught of emotion. Under a deluge of time’s mementos, I feel the textures of my life. Some fabrics sparkle and my laughter is reflected in the shine of sequins. Scratchy wool brings tears to my eyes as I remember times that are best forgotten. I stroke the softness of fleece and think about a recent trip to my mother’s home.

My closet isn’t so big but it’s not too little to fit life within. It will never be featured in a photo spread but it’s my closet, encasing me in warmth, filled with my life, my past, my present and my dreams for the future. Memories and moments tumble into my heart and arms as I rise on contented tiptoes with outstretched hands and fingers.