Evident in the closet was her meticulous order, her cleanliness, and her taste and style. Standing inside, I could smell the light scent of her brand of detergent, and her favorite perfume; Red Door. All tops and pants hung by hues of color and were placed a certain distance apart. My stomach turned over several times over a couple of hours when I pushed down the urge to burst out in tears. I clenched her trinkets in my hand and hugged a bathrobe and one of her shirts she often wore; I guess hoping to feel her. A clips-reel of memories played continuously as I pictured her; remembering the times and places where she wore each piece of her clothing. I found a stylish, slightly old, softly used pocketbook that was carefully wrapped in tissue; I am left wondering why she felt compelled to take extra care of that one since she had so many others. Some of her size seven shoes were worn; yet none were worn out. Many more pairs were never worn at all; to me these were reminders of her long incapacitation. I am left numb by what we like, care for, hold on to, desire and need in life --and how it is all simply divvied up or discarded when we go. I'm so happy I helped her while she was here and it made her smile.
Raidiant Rust Workshop
15 hours ago