I prepped to clean my closet. The mass of clothes were wedged so tight I would eventually sell the middle section to farmers as compost. If I could have chosen to bike up Mount Everest with street tires and a screaming toddler on the back, I would have to give the matter serious thought.
The first T shirt I untangled was one I’d worn on the first date with my wife. She passed through the room. “How long have we been married?” I asked her. “Twenty years,” she said. How could I throw away something so sacred? I honored our relationship by keeping it.
The next shirt was from the year after we were married, and I’d hit an in-the-park home run playing coed softball while wearing it. She had clapped and giggled in a way that made me think I was a hero. Giggled! How can I throw it away? An odor reminded me that, as a team, we decided not to wash our jersey’s until we lost. We’d won out the season. Well, at least if I met anyone on the team I’d tell them I held up my oath. Wow. Is that what I smelled like when I was 21?
The next shirts were presents that I actually wore to the bitter end and couldn’t get myself to throw away the sentiment.
How did a pair of cowboy boots end up on a hanger?