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.