After all these months, finally decided to clean out Alison’s closet.
Her clothing management was a lesson in urban organization.
She managed to put her entire life into an dresser and a closet measuring 6′(w) x 2′(d) x 8′(h). All her clothes were perfectly pressed and hung. Several had tags on them.
I remember she told me that she was excited to work out and get back to her “normal weight.”
I find people use too many superlatives to describe things. Let me just say these simple true things:
- The sun is hot.
- Space is cold.
- I loved her more than anything.
- I was in agony as I cleared out her things.
Spent a few days on it. Was pretty mechanical about the whole thing towards the end. With the random tourette’s sprinkled here and there for effect.
Managed to clean up a little more than half of it all before I had to stop. Gave away as much as I could to friends and family. Donated or tossed other things.
Kept far more than I intended. Had the most peculiar thought while I was cleaning it all up:
She’s gonna kill me if she comes back.
Ah, if only.
I’d kill myself a thousand times over if only. But you knew that.
The Gymgirl helped one day. I asked her if her helping me bothered her. She asked me if it bothered me. We both said no.
Caught her crying on the sofa over something of Alison and mine, but she wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and continued to help. Almost wept myself because of it.
Gymgirl: (later) I wish I met her. I feel we would have been friends.
Me: Sure. You’re nice. She liked to clean stuff up.
Her: Wait, what?
Me: Well, you’re a mess…y person…?
Her: (shaking head, laughing) Good save, Logan.
The Gymgirl ended up cleaning up and tossing out a lotta my junk while I was focused on her stuff. She found my 1999 law school yearbook.
Her: (reading it) I’m surprised at how modern everyone looks.
Me: What do you mean?
Her: I thought the pictures would all be black and white, people would be wearing funny clothes, and the guys would all have waxed mustaches.
Me: (laughing) How old do you think I am?!
Her: (thinking) I was nine when you graduated law school.
Me: (shaking head) Not what I asked.
Location: A clean(er) apartment. For now.
Music: A brown headed stranger, with a five-letter name