These days it seemed to be more hole than t-shirt. She should get rid of it, she knew that she should, but there were so many memories in that weave, in the holes. The t-shirt had seen much.
This closet was full of memories. That glittering collection of orange organza and sateen she had bought for senior prom. The white high school robe and the black college robe hung side by side. That tangerine shirt she’d worn the day she broke up with her last boyfriend. She still thought of it as a power shirt, worthy of its place beside the others. That lavender skirt had been a particularly romantic night by the riverside. She worried about it getting stained in the mud and the grass, but her worries were quickly forgotten when he’d put his hand on her waist. It had fit so nicely in the dip between her hip and rib. His arm had felt so right supporting her back. And that t-shirt she’d worn one of the rare nights when she had stayed up too late and laughed for hours with friends while they chatted over Google+. That one she had bought at a concert she’d gone to with a friend.
On mesh shelves above the clothes were boxes of craft supplies: extra skeins of yarn, scraps for the t-shirt blanket that she would probably never make….
The closet was arranged much as her one at home had been. That had been mostly unconscious. She remembered clearing out that closet in her parents’ home and finding the box of valentines from preschool and beyond that she hadn’t remembered that she’d had. She’d taken each one out, held them in her hands, smiling at the words, though each of them was full of insincere hallmark greetings printed on pictures of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Transformers or the old incarnations of the My Little Ponies. She smiled at the memories, and almost regretted that she would find nothing so touching among her clutter here.
Packing was always hard. Tossing things away was always hard. She hoped it would get easier, but how could it when you were only adding memories? And those memories would be more recent, seem more relevant than a box of aged valentines.
There was so much to pack still. She’d been here only a year, but she’d collected so many memories among the books and Goodwill finds. She’d done so much.
Her eyes paused on the black hat with its white logo, the one she’d been ignoring more than a month’s gone grocery circular.
Some memories were easy to discard. She wondered if she could talk the housemates into one last fire in the chiminea before Saturday.