Exceptional cleaning spree Closet Homicide by Spiritual Echo Story of the Month contest entry

Behold the mighty closet with alcoves and crevices wherein hide clothes I haven't worn in centuries. On the inside of the door is a full length mirror, a relic from the days when I was committed to stitched hems and preening glances. The many artificial skins, the rags that protect my modesty, have propagated, multiplied with apparent gluttony, squeezing the walls for space. Why then can't I find anything to wear? In a foolish moment of clarity, I responded to the telephone solicitation for used clothing with a hearty, "Yes, of course I have used clothes to donate to your charity." But, then in that sober moment when I stared at the extravagance of my vanity, my only wish was to close the doors, and drift back into denial. I pulled out my most expensive suit, a creamy pantsuit, the one I once wore to meetings when 'power dressing' was still in fashion. I purchased it at Bloomingdales, and remembered the sales clerk snorting when I told her my size. "Don't be ridiculous, girl," she said. Having lost a substantial amount of weight, I was momentarily saddened that I had understated my size, expecting her to return with a size eighteen. She pulled the size sixteen from my hands, and handed me an outfit I was not convinced Barbie could fit into. "No," I protested, but she marched me off to the change room with the practiced eye of an optometrist. It fit, damn it, and I smiled at the memory. Tracey Allen, Allen Tracey, I couldn't get the designer's name right, but as I stood in the change room, smiling at my reflection, I knew I was going to fork over the cash for that feeling of being beautiful. As I ran my hand over the soft wool blend, I knew it didn't fit today. Weight is like a yo-yo; what goes down, likely will go up. Maybe it could be altered, I thought, but still reluctant to try on the jacket or check the seams for extra material, I threw it onto the 'keep' pile. Some things are easy to discard; a peach and teal sweater that could be used as evidence if I was tested for colour blindness. The track suits, the fleece that still guaranteed comfort, but was riddled with bleach marks, indicating my lack of laundering skills. I was temporarily stalled by the volume of camisoles, trying to forget the two-for-one sales that encouraged me to buy 'just-in-case'colours. They were so damn cheap, I remembered. As I gazed at the rainbow, weighed the closet space for these wisps of satin and silk, I threw them on the 'keep' pile. There's the dress I wore to my son's wedding,I thought, a glitter of copper lace over a taupe grey sheath. I looked bloody marvellous, didn't I, recalling the bronze high heels and elbow length gloves and then, I remembered the bitch that married my kid, and walked out on her children. Charity, I stated, dropping it on the floor, and then did a little jig, grateful for her vacancy in all our lives. You're getting there, I said to myself, but then I hit the dark wall of black trousers/jeans/leggings. What was I thinking? Before I made a rash decision, I decided to pontificate on this major investment. As I sorted through the embarrassing amount of bum covers, I began to understand my reasoning for each purchase. I then sorted them by size, materials and casually thought about sorting my clothes by season. Who was I kidding? Keep, keep, keep. Parts of that afternoon were nostalgic, and some moments were embarrassing. Destroy, destroy, garbage. By the time I hit the t-shirts I was glad my accountant was not there to observe my shame. No damn wonder I only needed to do laundry once a month. The driver rang my bell to pick up the donation. "Is that all," he asked, noting the half-full garbage bag. "Not quite," I said, handing him a cheque made out to the charity. "For your trouble." Recognized

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