Purged

Flash Fiction by Lori Carson

Closet mayhem had become intolerable, the scattered inhabitants begging for an intervention. Hats and handbags were randomly tossed across the floor and into corners, like carnage from a tornado’s path. Assorted blouses and dresses protested cramped conditions, dangling by single shoulders from lopsided hangers. Stacks of sweaters had collapsed into wadded piles. Sandals, sneakers, and stilettos had lost their mates, separated from their partners like clients in divorce court. What had once been meticulous, color-coordinated organization had devolved into chaotic confusion.

Hands on hips, I surveyed the wreckage like a general assessing a war zone. There was no excuse for the neglected mess, the available closet real estate had doubled. Casting off surplus seemed as essential as a gasp of fresh air. Piling my hair on top of my head, I rescued a couple of empty cartons from the garage, poured myself a generous glass of Cabernet and waded into the middle of the debris field.

Clarity came easier than expected. Trendy items that had overstayed their style expiration were tossed into ‘giveaway’ piles without so much as a twinge of separation anxiety. I slipped into and out of the ‘undecideds’, trying on who I became in each, then consulting the discerning full-length mirror before separating the ‘keepers’ from the ‘what-was-I-thinkings.’ Tucking the wicker hamper under one arm, I scavenged for camouflaged dirty clothes. I buttoned up blazers, paired up pumps, and restored dignity to all the ‘investment dressing’ pieces, making swift progress, until it unexpectedly ground to a halt.

Co-mingled among the ill-fitting and the out-of-style, I discovered a collection of memories. Reminders, disguised as fashion, stubbornly clung to shelves and hangers, taunting me with smug smirks. Garment ghosts, sentenced to obscure closet purgatory for the emotion they held the power to evoke, stared me down, daring me to perform exorcism.

The black halter dress I wore the night we met, the first touch of his hand on my bare back.

A luxuriously soft cashmere sweater he bought for my birthday. “Blue, to match your eyes,” he’d said.

His favorite pair of my tight-fitting jeans, the ones barely accommodating enough for his hand to slide snugly inside my hip pocket.

The mesh bikini I took on our last vacation together. It conjured blurry images of us beneath waterfalls, kissing in the surf. Tan lines. We still loved each other then, didn’t we?

A collection of silky lingerie still looked brand new. Souvenirs of his efficiency at peeling them away and dropping them to the floor. Fabric foreplay.

The goodbye red jumpsuit. A symbol of the end, a participant in the last time we held each other, it could never be worn again. A stunning, sad garment, heavy laden with heartache and tear stains but never cleaned. That would’ve been sacrilege.  My resistance faltered, and I buried my face in it, as I’d done in weaker moments before. I inhaled the faint, lingering traces of his cologne mixed with my perfume, the heady fragrance of us.

Stripped down to bra and panties, I sat cross-legged on the floor amidst the cloth evocators. I examined the ruins, swore I heard the betrayers whispering his name. I contemplated the incrementalness of endings. Some goodbyes were just messier, requiring more than a sorting, a sage burning, or a stiff drink.

As vulnerability attempted its siege, my wandering eyes spotted a familiar friend tucked among the rubble. I reached to grab the hem of my favorite, faded t-shirt with the distressed peace sign across the chest. Slipping it over my head, I was reminded why the vintage, tattered relic had never been relegated to a giveaway pile. Perennially in vogue but void of pretension, it just felt good. What is it about well-worn, breathable cotton that makes it feel as satisfying and uncomplicated as a second skin?

A sigh escaped me, taking with it any remnants of regret. Eradicating the ghosts, I taped up boxes labeled for charity, their contents prepared to live new lives in someone else’s stories. I stepped back, admiring the orderly rows of hangers, the crisp folds on the shelves, organization’s gratifying return to power. Rid of excess, liberated from what no longer fit, I’d made room for a new personal style. I purged my closet today, it was past time.

Lori Carson is a writer in southern California.