Your Closet

Six years ago over a warm, sunny Memorial Day weekend, we watched you die in the bright hospice room that Pop had found for you with a view of the rose garden. I hadn't seen you in a couple months, busy in L.A. with your two lively grandchildren and a full life. We spent Easter with you at Andria’s. You were very thin then, but still yourself. When I walked in and saw you, just skin and bones, six weeks later, it felt like someone punched me in the gut. I hadn't known you were actually going to die, organs failing hour-by-hour. I had planned so many questions and conversations in my head on my five-hour drive up from Los Angeles. But when I got there, you weren't able to speak. Just barely whispers, asking for tea that you couldn't swallow.

Of course I cried, but there was also a lot to do after you left us. Weeks later I helped Pop with your closet. You sure had a lot of stuff. You liked having the things you liked, so you bought them in multiples. You didn't care much about returning things, so there were boxes of brand-new pants, shirts, sweaters, shorts and shoes that didn't make the cut and were damned to exist in the purgatory of your closet, never to be worn by you or anyone else. The clothes you did wear still smelled like you, like baby powder. It was a lot of work, but car load-by-car load, I took bags and bags of new or barely worn items to the second hand stores. One lady asked me if I had closed down a shop. I laughed and walked away. I didn't want to explain my mother's quirks.

Deep in the bowels of your walk-in, between ten of the same fleece zip ups in different colors, sixteen pairs of similar pants in khaki, navy and black, thirty-two cotton t-shirts in smallish pastel patterns, there were gems of vintage fashion. The emerald green and black peplum two-piece you wore on those going out occasions in the early '80s. The rust-colored, belted dress in the later '80s. The gorgeously bright 70's pattern cheongsam with three-quarter sleeves. The quintessential polyester bell-bottom pantsuit. The rose colored mohair Jackie O style sleeveless sheath dress with cropped jacket.

I purchased a roll of clear garment bags to store these treasures, carefully lining them up by decade with even spacing between each hangar. I wondered exactly how annoyed you would have been at getting your closet organized. I stored your gloves and scarves in plastic bins on the upper shelves. I stored your many hats that Andria crocheted for you when you lost your hair, your purses and your travel keepsakes in larger bins on the floor. I gave away all of the everyday pants and shirts, except for a couple of the soft plaid button ups you'd favored in the last ten years. I kept several of the fleece zip ups. The brown one, pink one and blue one. And I wear them sometimes when I come back to visit.