LETTING GO

You’re sorting clothes that have hung for many decades in many closets, many cities, many houses. It’s time to let them go, this collection of skirts, trousers, blouses, sweaters, dresses, coats—all of them dated, hem lengths all wrong.

This should be easy.

After moving fifteen times, you know the drill. It’s best to sort belongings before the moving truck arrives. If that proves impossible, sort while unpacking at the new place. In the worst case, jam everything into the new attics and closets—an option you’ve used too often.

A friend once remarked, “You love wherever you live, wherever it is.” Perhaps that’s why moving has become routine—there is always a good reason and you easily adjust to fresh surroundings, different climates, new friends. Maybe that’s why you think it’s possible to move again, even when living alone on the wrong side of seventy.

This time, you are determined to sort before the moving truck arrives.

You face an embarrassingly large heap of garments you’re unlikely to wear again. To keep or not to keep—everything has to go into one pile or the other. There is no point in a maybe, might, in-another-life pile.

You remember with bittersweet accuracy buying and wearing favorites: the black-watch kilt from England, an extravagant purchase at twenty-something; the burgundy skirt worn with matching tights that accommodated both flashing legs and modesty; the purply-pink, precisely tailored suit that screamed I AM NOT A SECRETARY when you joined a law firm; the navy sweater dress with Kelly green trim at the sleeves and hem, your go-to for casual weekend gatherings.

You won’t wear any of these favorites again. Probably never do more than what you do now; slip a garment over your head, pose briefly in the mirror (pleased when it still fits), let it drop to the floor.

This should be easy.

But it’s not easy to give up these long-ago versions of yourself because they still live, part who you are now. If you let go of kilt, skirt, suit, or dress, you risk losing the price-conscious twenty-something, the woman who flashed her legs, the new lawyer who celebrated weekends with friends.

The Persimmon Tree, Short Takes, Fall 2025