The Dress
Three years…
It had been three long years. Empty beds, lonely meals, and a painfully quiet house had become the norm. It’s strange to think how much presence a single person can have in your life. Now, she’s gone. All that’s left is the oppressive emptiness of the spaces she used to occupy. Hollow ghosts haunting me wherever I go.
That, and the closet full of her things.
It had been three years since I hastily threw all her belongings inside and closed the closet door. It was too painful to look at them. Pictures of us together. Gifts that reminded me of her. Her collection of plastic figurines. And her clothes. All the clothes that would never be worn now that she is gone. All haphazardly thrown into the closet in an attempt to forget their previous owner.
Three years of pretending the door in my hallway didn’t exist. Of deflecting questions when nosy guests notice the locked door. Of hopelessly waiting for her to reappear and claim her long abandoned items, as if she were just away on a trip rather than gone forever.
Finally. After three years, it was time to finish moving on. Armed with some large trash bags, my plan was clear. Open the door. Put all the items into the bags. Take the bags to a donation site. Three steps. I wasn’t going to stop to look at anything. No reminiscing over the photos. Just armfuls of things unceremoniously shoved into a bag where they will never be seen again. They’ll be someone else’s problem.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and unlock the door. The hinges creak loudly, complaining at having not been used for so long. Light hits the pile of forgotten memories for the first time in three years. I get to work.
I do my best to distract myself. Thinking of anything and everything other than the task at hand as I follow the plan. Armfuls of her belongings disappearing into the black void of the bags. No time to sort. No time to care what ends up where. I avert my eyes, blindly grabbing items to avoid stirring up unwanted memories. All was going well. The plan was working.
Until my fingers felt the unmistakable texture of a crushed velvet dress.
I froze, arms buried in a pile of discarded memories. I refuse to look down, but I don’t need to. I know exactly what it is. Its image is burned into my memory. The soft green color that shimmers in the light. The faint red stain from a glass of wine carelessly spilled. The small tear along the hem from a misstep on the dance floor. I knew this dress well.
It was what she wore the very last night I saw her.
For what felt like an eternity, I remained motionless. Memories of that night rushing back to me. I tried to push them away, but the texture of the dress still in my hands forces them to the forefront. Memories of a party. Of laughter and mirth among friends. Of a cool, cloudless evening, the moon lighting up her face, dancing across the dress as it hugs her form. The night used to be a happy memory, now tainted with darker emotions with the cruelty of the knowledge of what was to come.
Slowly, I return to the task at hand. The sting of tears in my eyes blinding me from having to look at any of the rest of the belongings. As the last bag is filled and tied off, I look over my work. A pile of dark plastic hiding away all the things I would rather not remember. I load them into my car, and drive them to a local charity, heaving the bags into the donation bin.
I return home, and gaze into the closet. For the first time in three years, the closet is free from her memories. Free from the torment of her haunting me. Empty of any emotion, any pain, and any longing for something that will never return.
Save for a single, green dress, hanging in the corner.