It's been a bit over a month since I finally took Art's clothes out of our closet. I'm not sure why it has taken me so long to write about it, but it may be the same reason that it took so long for me to do it. It's so final.
For a while after Art died, it was upsetting for me to go into the walk-in closet we shared and see his clothes hanging there; but it was even more upsetting to think about removing them. Although I knew it would have to be done eventually, I just couldn't bring myself to take that step. After awhile, I think it was somewhat comforting to open the closet door and see his clothes still hanging there. Don't get me wrong. There was nothing morbid about it. I didn't bury my face in his shirts in an effort to detect the scent of his aftershave (he didn't wear cologne). It was just such a familiar sight, and I wasn't ready to change that.
Ironically, it was Valentine's Day when I finally did it, with my daughter's help. There was nothing symbolic about choosing that day. It just happened to be a time that worked for both of us. Surprisingly, the act of removing Art's dress shirts, golf shirts, golf shorts, and long pants from hangers, folding them and placing them in boxes for donation to Goodwill, wasn't as painful as I had anticipated. It was sad, but not painful. What was painful, was seeing his half of the closet so empty.
In the weeks since that day, I have moved some of my clothes to fill in the empty spaces. It helps. I still have to deal with his shoes, and the coats, suits, tuxedo, sweaters and other things that are stored in other closets in our 4-bedroom home. And his golf clubs are still sitting in the garage—just the way he left them.
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