Squirrel!

I am moving out of my bedroom for a few weeks while the contractor repairs drywall, paints, and discovers new and inventive ways of spending my money. I spend days lugging clothes, shoes, purses, and assorted flotsam and jetsam to the guest room.

Each time I fill my arms, I’m sure this must be the last of it. It is not. My possessions must be multiplying, I think, like the broom in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

In a previous life, I must have been a squirrel.

When I first started this project, I told myself this would finally be the chance to clean out my closet. Along with new walls and paint, I would have a new outlook. A pared-down outlook. An organized outlook.

As I relocate each piece, I ask myself the question professional organizers tell me to ask. Do I love it?

I love it all. Each piece has a memory or the hope of a memory. I am the Scrooge McDuck of clothes—I hoard and treasure each one.

Each piece is My Precious.

“Are all those clothes yours?” the contractor asks as I labor to clear the room.

“When Armageddon comes,” I say haughtily, “I will have the right outfit.”

He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to measuring.

Besides, I’ve finally found some pieces I hadn’t seen in months, or possibly years. That back silk sweater that goes with everything was crumpled in the corner behind a pile of boots. I pick it up, apologize for the rough treatment and promise to cherish it.

If it could, it would have turned its back and stomped out of the room in a snit. I would not blame it.

I fill five sacks with the pieces I can almost bear to part with—mostly because they no longer fit or are damaged. I hesitate before loading them in the car to drop them off at the donation center. I pat the bags and thank the clothes for their faithful service.

But in my heart of hearts, I long to toss them back into my car and spirit them home. Once a squirrel, always a squirrel.