Every season, I switch my closet out. In the spring, I put my winter sweaters in a big blue bin, and it goes into the storage space until the weather turns cold again.
I try to purge, and create piles. Donate, consign, trash – just like those clear the clutter books recommend.
I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping clutter to a minimum. I donate clothes, and books frequently. When the mail comes, I sort through it right away, and throw out the junk.
Sometimes I accidentally throw away catalogues my husband wanted. Or worse, I tear up receipts too quickly, and panic when we decide to return something. Even if it’s not my fault, I’m usually blamed for “lost” papers.
I used to save everything. I liked making scrap books when I was younger. I kept birthday cards, letters, programs from concerts, ticket stubs.
It’s not that I’m not sentimental. I’ve just learned to let go of the physical stuff.
Even still, a few items seem to remain in that storage bin year after year. I can’t seem to put them in another pile. It’s unlikely I’ll ever wear the faux suede brown pants and the tight little sweater with the sparkle heart in the middle – a gift from Jen for my 26th birthday when we lived in Spain.
And yet, I can’t seem to let go. Maybe that’s ok. It’s really not taking up that much space in the big blue bin. I realize I’m holding onto the memory, to what that cute little outfit represents.
The orange trees, Vespas zipping past, the smell of Spring flowers mixed with smell of horse piss.
Cappuccinos, and why is this toast so fantastic?
Red wine, Fanta limon, olives, jamon hanging from the ceiling, cheap whiskey, discotheques.
The Cathedral, The River Guadalaquivir, The Torre del Oro, The Royal Alcazar.
Bar Sancho Panzo, little glasses of cool beer
A kiss on each cheek.