Cleaning Out the Closets of Life

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Featured in the Dayton Daily News

Sorting through a childhood closet is not for the sentimental hearted.  It can leave you at a standstill surrounded by tokens of memories chronicling the life of a family.   Where do you even begin to let go? Our two sons shared a room always.  Over the last 28 years, their common closet has accrued grade school book reports, sports trophies, chess sets, stamp collections and shoeboxes full of baseball cards.  Packets of high school retreat letters and college notebooks left little room for the worn tennis shoes, balled up socks and the remnants of old Halloween costumes.  The clutter and chaos of this bedroom closet have remained untouched despite my boys having lived on their own for several years. My younger son, now married with a baby boy, recently bought his first home.  He and his wife were ready to begin their own life story, so I felt it time to invite him to revisit the inventory of his childhood, and make decisions regarding what he wanted to save and what was no longer important.  I needed his help. We took a trip down memory lane as my son and I placed into piles those items telling the story of his childhood.  We recalled soccer tournaments, books we read together, and neighborhood friends now long grown.  I was having a hard time parting with the stuff of his developing years, but he was clear in his ability to let go.  He led me to a sense of freedom as I placed his growing years in the proper place, my heart memory.  We were making progress until his older brother, now living in Chicago, called.  He became aware of our sorting task.

“Wait, wait, wait,” was all he could say as we informed him of our purge.  His voice rose in alarm.

“You can’t throw away my Woodman Speech second place award plaque from Fifth grade.…yes, I still want my high school biology notebook…..I may want to share with my own kids that college philosophy paper…….Mom, you can’t pitch my middle school Science Olympiad medals……” and so it went. My younger son and I looked at one another while my older son ranted about the value of his vintage clutter.  We rolled our eyes not the least bit surprised that he wished to keep everything.  Despite the successful crafting of his adult life, this son still dreamt of their Cincinnati Reds wallpaper and matching bunk bed sheets.   He still knows every pin in his curtain-lined collection.  We ended up returning to the closet all those things he had a right to review.  I closed the closet door again until another day. I wasn’t surprised at my Chicago son’s emotional attachments.  In part, I felt the same way.  There is a fear in letting go of the tangible evidence of our memories.  What if I forget?  What if I want to share this with my grandchild?  What if this becomes valuable down the road? What happens when this closet no longer has proof of the brotherhood I witnessed all those years?  And most poignant, who am I without these closets? My younger son loaded up the few boxes of memorabilia he chose to save, and we brought to the garbage a huge bag of things no longer deemed relevant.  He and his wife drove off to their new home.  I think about the clutter they will soon collect as they build their closets of treasures.  I was filled with a new joy, one that included the satisfaction that we really don’t need to save to remember.  Their stories are etched in my well-worn journey of motherhood.  Now if I can just work through the thousands of photographs in the other closet.