There are things in my closets I can’t throw away,
though I have absolutely no use for them:
my father’s heavy wool Navy uniform from World War II;
the knit bonnets my mother wore as an infant;
my grandmother’s lacy, slim wedding dress,
countless satin-covered buttons down the back;
the pale pink silk shawl with long gold fringe all around
that my sister and I played dress-up with as children;
the mini-kilt I bought in London in 1966, and the
matching kilt I bought years later for my then
four-year-old daughter; the high school sweater,
same green as the kilt; I wore them together for many
Halloweens. Then there are the perfume bottles.
I don’t wear perfume, haven’t for years. But I can’t
get rid of the bottle of Shalimar by Guerlain, the scent
a reminder of fancy-dress dates in college, or the
bottle of No. 4711 Eau de Cologne I bought in Europe in 1966.
The tug of memory is too strong for tossing.


© by Juliane McAdam.
Used with the author's permission.