The last of the lipstick shirts

 

Attrition. That’s how I’ve dealt with letting go of inanimate objects I’ve had since Gail died six years ago. With everything from dish towels to plants she took care of that I never seemed skilled enough to properly nourish, when it was time to let each one go, I did so. Reluctantly enough, I threw them out. I’ve replaced a few pillowcases, although some of the old ones that are still around are getting threadbare and they are daring me to cut them up into dust rags.

A few months after she died, at the suggestion of a good friend, I moved her clothes out of our, now my, master bedroom closet into the guest room closet. After a couple of months getting used to not seeing them and, I suppose, giving them the opportunity to get used to not being near our bedroom, I took them to a consignment store. They were either sold or donated to clothes closets for needy women. That was fine with me because I knew Gail would be happy that the blouses, jeans, dresses and shoes would be used by someone who needed them.

Regarding my own clothes, it became surprisingly difficult to let go of them without thinking of the times she might have surprised me with them or where I had worn them when we had been together. The collars of old shirts began to unravel, and jeans and khakis started to look like they were sprouting cotton fringe at the hem. They became my knock-around clothes to wear on weekends or when I didn’t need to leave the house. I wore them around the house and outside doing things to the point that they were not in good enough shape for any charity. They finally made it to the trash.

Lipstick Shirts

About ten years ago, Gail washed a load of our clothes without realizing that she had left a lipstick in one of her pockets. All the clothes came out of the dryer with tiny red spots on them. She was mortified and apologized profusely and quite unnecessarily for the little red spots on several of my shirts. To me, the spots were hardly noticeable, and we began laughing about them and calling them my “lipstick” shirts.

The shirts were in fine shape and I continued to wear them. Once at a restaurant, a lunch partner stopped in mid-sentence with a horrified look on his face and said, “I’m so sorry! I accidentally squirted ketchup on your shirt.” I told him the red spots were on it when I had arrived. We laughed, as Gail and I did that night when I told her what had happened.

Now, there is one lipstick shirt left. It has been worn and washed so much the spots are practically gone. But the button-down collar and cuffs are embarrassingly frayed and the blue Oxford sleeves have split from the elbow to the wrist. The last time I wore it and washed it was months ago. I know it is time to throw it away.  But I can’t bring myself to let it go. Seeing it brings tears of joy and sorrow at the same time.

Keep the change

Gail always used to kid me about resisting change. Her death was a change I couldn’t stop or change but I’ve done my best to adapt to the way my life is now. I’ve evolved emotionally, personally and professionally as well as I could while doing my best to keep things that have seemed to bring some normalcy to my life. My world, as everyone’s does, is constantly changing. The world has changed immeasurably in the last few months and shows no signs of stopping. And there’s one lipstick shirt left in my closet. Damn.

Text and photo copyright 2020

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