Ah, my closet. It’s full of clothes, and yet I have nothing to wear.
It contains work clothes: suit pants, shirts and jackets from over ten years ago. Pretty dresses, two sizes too small. Why do these still hang in my wardrobe?
I have no real answer. Only that they cost a substantial amount of money, plus they are evidence of how slim I used to be. I sometimes hold them up and marvel at the labels, the sizes.
All the clothes that I wear now hang in the same space, too, yet they bore me. They’re drab, big and unflattering.
My closet also contains many pairs of shoes, most of which I can’t ever wear again. The heels are too high; my feet too painful from heel spurs and plantar fasciitis for me to even look at those shoes, let alone wear them. I hold onto them, just in case I am presented with a miraculous occasion of a sit-down function, and for a sense of nostalgia.
My closet is a museum of sorts. It holds remnants of the woman I used to be. But it’s current too. It reflects the woman I am now, with all my foibles and extras.