Like my sons, I have my favorites that I can’t seem to part with. A shirt from a vacation. A dress I wore when I was first dating my husband. A pair of shoes that were too awesome to pass up but seriously kill my feet to wear.
Seasons and fashion wait for no man, woman, or child. We grow up. We move on.
The toughest part is seeing their lives go by in a blur of outgrown T-shirts and much-loved pants with holes in the knees after too many playground sessions. Each item carries with it a memory of the boy who wore it and the time we spent together. Every pair of too-short pants a reminder of just how big they are getting, of how they’ve grown into boys from babies, making their own choices on fashion and everything else.
As the summer ends, it’s time to face the closets and dresser drawers. I try to keep a steady hand and detached mind as I make my piles, sorting as much as I can without prejudice, trying not to remember the origin story of each piece, the memories inherent in the garments.
I know there will be more memories to be made, wearing favorite clothes that we didn’t even know we needed yet. The drawers are sorted and close without effort, and I decide I’ve earned a little reward for my efforts.
Guess it’s time to go shopping. Maybe even for me.