GOOD WILL

The morning I actually counted them, stunned me. I had trouble believing my count and re-did it. You will think I’m making this up, but it is true.

In my closet, on shelves, I have 28 purses–8 black, 2 browns, 6 tans, 1 rose, 3 white, 5 evening and 3 multi-colored. I walk into the bedroom, look at myself in the mirror and believe I have insanity snakes in my brain. Not being a hoarder, each December I cull my closet, give bags and bags of items to thrift shops. I don’t have even a modicum of friends or family with whom I might socialize and need very little.

Why do I keep all of these purses? The answer is there, hanging on by a twisted thread. Years ago, too many to believe, I had to do what I, and I alone could do, pack and give away all of my better half’s clothes when he passed, without giving me a warning that he would not be home for dinner. His side of the large closet was empty, except for two items I see almost daily, the last pajamas he wore and his unworn tux that still has the size ticket on the sleeve. It took a week for me to put many of my things on his side which left me with two sparsely used racks. I bought more clothes that I didn’t need, some I didn’t even like and filled my side but never the hole in my heart.

My job has only just begun. ‘Do it, do it now, Woman, or your children will later.’ I proceed to my shoes. The shoe racks runs all around the closet. On there by color, by heel heights, are stacked 28 pairs. Flats, walking shoes, sandals, low boots, evening, 2 reds and one pair of green. I had almost forgotten the green (the most expensive shoes I ever bought in my life). It was to match a special dress for a birthday gala I gave for myself. They hurt when I danced, when I walked and I never wore them again. There are also 3pairs of white flats. I have not worn white sports clothes in 15 years. Two pairs have hob nails that have rusted.

I literally plop down on the carpet, look around, think too much and start to cry myself into oblivion, knowing I am not going to be able to hurt myself again. If I were younger? I’d do what, make the closet into a small office for myself? Dumb. The spare room is my office that I gladly give up to my family for the too few times a year they visit me for a big 3 to 5 day stay. On my desk I have my Toshiba lap top, HP printer, phone, notes scotch taped everywhere. Deep filing drawers, a what not drawer, give me everything. The closet will never become my office. If my family is uncomfortable, they can go to a hotel. Settled.

The unused purses, jackets with Joan Crawford shoulders, green shoes are ready to go to the thrift shop. I box them, bag them, start to take them to my car–

but it is I, I who am not ready. I take them back upstairs knowing I may never go the distance and that somebody else will have it easier because I filled the spare room closet with the packed things.