Two Quiet Tuesdays

I found on a quiet Tuesday in March that cleaning out your closet bears an uncanny resemblance to purging your past. I had taken the day off of work, feeling desperately I needed a moment to escape the routine of life that would inevitably lead to my death. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I had no plans really. I guess that was the point. I needed a day of my life not to be played out in my head precisely before it happened.

Tobias, my endlessly supportive and forever perfect lover, had just left for work. He kissed me on the forehead, as he had every day for the past six years.

“Enjoy your day, call me if you need anything at all. I love you.”

And I loved him. I smiled softly as he shut the door behind him, then walked into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

For the first time I had realized that I enjoyed the sound of coffee brewing. As I stood aside the kitchen counter patiently waiting as the room filled of dark roast and vanilla aromas, I noticed the down pour outside. I felt serene. The subtle blend of falling rain and brewing coffee surged gingerly through my ears, sounding of a heaven I hadn’t known to exist within my apartment walls before.

I sat at the breakfast table just large enough for two, and watched the raindrops on the window until my cup was empty. I hadn’t particularly wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I walked about the apartment, not necessarily pacing, but mindlessly moving until anything had felt worth pursuing. I walked between the bedroom and the living room three times before pausing at the hallway closet.

Tobias and I had silently, but collectively decided to ignore it for years. It was an unusually large closet for a one bedroom apartment, stretching deep in both directions past the opening made by the door. You couldn’t walk into it though, so it was much easier to shove the I’ll-get-to-later boxes and articles into the dark depths of the abysmal space than to pull them back out.

I stood in the doorway a few moments before deciding that this would be my day well spent. It seemed mildly depressing, considering the infinities of space were creeping into my morning thoughts, but I couldn’t really do anything about the galaxies, so the tangibility of the apartment closet had to suffice.

I began with the easy bits, the old coats and unwanted gifted sweaters from lingering holidays filling the entirety of the closet rod. Neighborhoods of smaller boxes and stacked papers began shifting at the seismic activity I caused by pulling all of the clothes off of the hangers and tossing them on the hallway floor. It was strange to see something so cluttered in the home. It was so opposite the white walls and cream furniture that crafted the personality of the space Tobias and I had shared for so long.

At the forefront of the closet stood the boxes of holiday decorations (tastefully chosen to match the rest of our space) carrying the weight of filing bins with important medical and family documents atop. Those obviously had to stay, and there were only two boxes for decorations. I had already significantly decreased my decor collection when Tobias and I moved in together. He didn’t like lots of things, and I liked that about him. When my sister passed, his organization seemed to be the only thing that brought stability into my life.

I moved the boxes out into the hallway, and began to make my way deeper into the abyss. The morning passed seamlessly as the steady rain carried on beyond the windows. I had dissected nearly half of the closet, deciding to get rid of old clothes I would acceptedly never fit into again, the kitchen appliances that had never been used, and school assignments from years ago.

The next stack housed a few photo albums and books I could never seem to part with. I began sifting through the collection of old classics, the never actually read, and the thrifted assembly of photography and painting books. I smiled briefly. I had nearly forgotten my past desire of wanting to be a painter. The photo albums, too, encouraged a few small grins at memories of a pink haired spunky fourteen year old picking on her white-dress-wearing younger sister with blonde braids. I moved on before the nostalgia could set too far in.

Except I had made my way to the come-back-to boxes in the depths of the closet. Those were the things that weren’t meant to be over. One was filled with paint and canvases, another with modeling clay and attempted sculptures. Amidst the temporary passions that I had sworn to return to were artifacts of temporary lovers. Old photos and love letters meant so deeply at the time they were written were scattered amongst the boxes. I couldn’t believe the things men had said to me. I tried to recall if I had spoken so intensely to them as well. I probably had. I remember craving fiery romances that ended in a blaze. I used to enjoy the intensity of emotions, before the intensity of them peaked in that hospital room.

I could feel my eyes glossing over. I breathed deeply, seeming to feel the rain from the outside air as it passed through my nostrils, and pushed the items further down the hallway.

I looked back into the closet surprised that only one more box stood alone in the dark space. I opened the cardboard flaps, and all I smelled was her. The contents were the few items I had kept after my sister’s passing. There were a few t-shirts, photos, her bottle of perfume, and knick knacks we had collected on trips we had taken together. I sat and soaked in the scent of home for an unknown amount of time before finding it in me to start shuffling through the mementos. Near the bottom of the collection was a package wrapped in brown paper the size of a shoebox. I looked at it curiously, unsure of what it was or what it had been from. It had clearly never been opened. I lifted it gently out of the box to find it was nearly as light as the box itself. There was small hand writing on the bottom that I knew belonged to mom.

Your sister wanted me to give this to you. Open it when you’re ready.

I sat with my legs crossed and the package in my lap. Perhaps six years was enough healing time, because I had felt no hesitation towards removing the paper from the box. When I opened the lip, there was nothing but a short note inside.

I left the rest of the wishes, use them all up.

My memories began rolling a clip from her birthday nearly ten years back. She sat poised but still couldn’t hide the excitement in her eyes at the immense present wrapped in vibrant colors and exuberant patterns sitting in front of her. When she opened the flaps, a piece of paper with a note I had written was lying alone on the bottom of the box.

I left room for all your wishes to come true, Happy Birthday!

She was furious with me but I grabbed her by the pigtails and howled “listen up! That’s the best gift in the whole world. I left all that room and now everything you ever wish for has a home. So whenever you really need a wish to come true, as long as you’ve got your wish box, it will, okay?”

The anger drained from her freckled face and she laughed at me. “You’re such a weirdo.”

I remember that box sitting in the hospital room.

Suddenly I was back in my apartment, but it didn’t feel like my apartment anymore. It felt like hers. I looked around at the pristine walls and the pristine couch and the photos of my pristine Tobias and only saw her.

My heart started racing as I realized everything in the closet was mine. All of the clutter belonged to me because I was clutter. I was scatter-brained and collected everything and got rid of nothing. I dyed my hair pink because I could and got paint and clay and ink and who knows what else all over walls because it felt authentic. I had boxed away and stowed myself in a closet and sat quietly with a comfortable man who should have been hers. And that comfortable man let me collect dust for six years because he didn’t know any better.

The apartment felt like the hospital room, and I felt like I was suffocating. I did the only thing I could do. I grabbed my bag and my keys, scribbled a note, and walked out the door.

…

I found on a quiet Tuesday in March that it takes only five words to obliterate a world you thought would last forever.

I climbed the steps briskly, happy the work day was over, and hopeful that Amelia hadn’t found the small, brown-paper wrapped box tucked neatly in the back of my nightstand. I was surprised to find the door unlocked— she never left it that way. I stepped in the apartment to the faint smell of coffee and the sound of silence. The hallway was overflowing with unfamiliar items, and on the breakfast table for two was a piece of paper with one scrawled sentence in all-too-familiar handwriting:

I can’t love you anymore.