My Closet and I

I went through my closet this morning, looking for something to wear. I was running a little late, and the only thing I cared about was: comfort. Bright purple looked great, and so I pulled the simple, long sleeve tee off the hanger, and tossed it onto my bed.

Five minutes later, I was pulling it on and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a memory. The last time this purple shirt had been dropped over my head, I was on my way out the door of 27 Palace Court, headed towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace. I nearly cried, as I pressed my face into the fabric, hoping beyond all hope, that somehow the smell of London would still be there, clinging to the fibers of the fabric. I searched for any sign of the delicious smell of rain, the polished scent of the glass windows of the Victoria and Albert, the ancient smell of the British Museum, the devastatingly beautiful green of Hyde Park. Unfortunately, the only smell that soaked my nostrils, was that of Tide, the laundry detergent that washed out all the pleasant memories of a past life.

I guess clothes can do that to you, bring back a memory. I remember what I was wearing on my first date, the dress I was wearing to audition for All-State Choir, the shoes I wore when I stepped off the plane in Rome, the shirt I was wearing when I puked my guts out into my sink, the pajamas I wore when I broke up with a boyfriend.

My closet is full of more than just clothes; it's full of days in the sunshine, nights with a million stars overhead, walks along the Tiber River, wind blowing at Versailles, and the hugs I gave my nephew the first time I held him in my arms. If walls could talk, imagine what amazing stories they would tell. If clothes could talk, just think of the people they've met, the hugs they've given, the cold they've banished, the places they've been, the defining moments they've influenced.

Maybe someday, we'll sit and have a chat, my closet and I.

Rain, Rain; Please Don't Go Away.

It rained this morning. Actually, to be completely honest, it's raining right now. My window is propped open, letting the cool air circulate through my room, causing my poor heater to have a nervous breakdown.

There's something about rain though, that is amazing. I don't know if it's because of a simple song I learned as a young child, about how rain makes the earth clean and new, or if it's because rain brings on a certain level of comfort that you just can't find any other place.
It's the kind of comfort that makes you want to curl up on the couch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you, hot chocolate and cookies at your side, with a fantastically romantic novel in your hands.

There's a smell that accompanies the drops that scatter across the sidewalk, cling to the blades of grass, and soak your hair. It's the smell of mom baking cookies, soaking your nostrils with perfection the second you walk through the door after school. It's the exhilarating smell of running through puddles with your siblings, giggling as you splash each other and squealing with pleasure as your clothes begin to resemble wet paper bags. Rain takes you back to the city you love; the way the sidewalk smells as millions of people walk to work, the way the Thames rises up the edges of the dock. The way the Tube seems to become an incredible haven from a downpour. And the smell of rain thrusts you back to moments when you were held close by someone you loved; the way the water drips down his hair into his eyes, making them look bluer than usual, if that's even possible. The way he grins as he shakes the tree branch above you, causing a million and one droplets to suddenly cascade onto your face and neck. Rain brings the smell of wet kisses by the bell tower, hugs underneath trees, moments so completely perfect, you have to reread your journal, just to make sure they actually occurred.

What is it REALLY though, about rain that makes it wonderful? I guess I couldn't tell you in one sentence, not even five or nine.
If you think I'm crazy, just wait until the first snow.....