Interest in de-junking one’s house seems to be a phenomenon of growing older. It’s the sense I get from talking to my pals. One has had cleaning my closets as a regular task on her to-do list for as long as I can remember, another wants to but can’t seem to get there. I fall somewhere in between.

A few months ago Peter was looking for something in our sadly neglected kitchen junk drawer. He couldn’t find it so I helped. One thing led to another resulting in this.

Even now I find myself opening the drawer just to look at how pretty it is. Peter says they’re going to lock me up, and he might be right, but it’s this pathological organizing that saves me, saves us, else we’d be overcome with unruly stuff. The truth is, I don’t rid myself of personal items easily – my internal tug of war: paring down while holding tight. Retired now and doing my own work from home, I no longer own any of my previous business attire. My practical side won out that round and all have been recycled, on to their new life with someone who’ll hopefully treat them well. (Another pal, similarly afflicted, has a habit of kissing her unneeded items goodbye before sending them on their way. I’ve tried that, it helps a little.)

Recently with the weather turning warmer, I moved my down coats to the back of the closet and brought my few lightweight cloth jackets up front. Among them I found the jean jacket that I’ve had for decades, and a second one previously belonging to Marlene. Dad’s linen shirt is hanging in the closet upstairs. His baseball mitts are there too, complete with balls in place to keep their catch-able shape. And his navy hat is in the archive box under my desk along with his father’s inscribed cigarette lighter. None are needed, but all – to steal a line from a favorite movie – will be staying where they lay.