The jacket in the closet

I was cleaning out my closet last week. It’s a huge job because I am a terrible slob. I’ve developed a technique of opening the door, quickly throwing a piece of clothing in and slamming the door closed before the item even hits the floor.

This works well for the disposal part, but it’s terrible for retrieval. Using this technique gives the illusion that my closet is in control. But open the door, and the avalanche tells a different story.

Clothing becomes intertwined and terribly wrinkled. Shoes lose their mates forever, and items I’ve had since the second grade stubbornly claim their place on the floor.

I dug into the thing that was screaming loudest for my attention. A floral print collar poked through the pile. I didn’t recognize it at first, so I began to pull on it. And pull.

I had made a big mess before I even knew what it was. It was like I was giving birth. Huffing, puffing, cursing and pulling, I was exhausted. And then with one tug, it flew out with such power it almost knocked me over.

And I knew. The flowered print on a faded, waist length jean jacket. It was my sister, Sarah’s. She wore it all the time.

Until she died. Of an oxy overdose.

Suicide? Accident? No one knows. And it doesn’t much matter.

The night of her death, my siblings and I went to take some valuables from her condo. I spotted the jacket hanging neatly over a dining room chair. I don’t know why I took it. I would never wear it. I didn’t even like it, but for some reason I needed it.

Writing about it

Standing in front of my closet, breathless and clutching the jacket, I was hit with one of those “memoir moments,” when I feel the urge to put something significant into words. For me there is a difference between scribbling about it in my journals and crafting my thoughts like clay. I want to shape them for other eyes.