Shopping in my Mother’s Closet
prose poem
My mother and I found a bag of her old clothes deep in the garage where all our forgotten stuff goes. Dresses, blouses, and shirts of all kinds lay bare on her bed for my greedy hands to inspect. There were all types of patterns from animal to paisley and floral prints. My eyes gazed across an old top of hers, and then the shopping commenced. My mother’s closet has always been my favorite place to shop.
It started back when puberty hit and my growth spurt started; my feet grew larger in size, causing a major shoe shock panic. No shoes that I owned could house the extra size. And then an idea hatched, and to my mother’s closet, I flew. Out I danced, sporting a pair of her shoes that, unlike mine, housed extra room. And from that day forward, in and out of her closet I ran, borrowing her shoes as my size 7 1/2 settled in.
As I grew older, the clothes fascination began. We developed a routine, and there the shopping started. Whatever she didn’t want nor need was passed down to me, and although my mother bore a much fluffier figure than my own, that did nothing to stop my prying eyes from greedily taking in the sight of clothes upon clothes.
My mother’s closet was better than any store at any mall! Each floral-scented piece held a deep sense of home. Yes, that’s it, a home that travels, one that I take with me everywhere — the echo of laughter, the rustle of fabric, and the whispers of shared history neatly hanging on hangers, waiting to be worn and cherished anew.
