I’m generally not a neat and tidy person, and I’m almost always surrounded by some level of clutter. Usually it doesn’t bother me, but at times it does get to be a bit much, and I feel the need to get rid of stuff.
I’ve been in one of those moods lately.
Whether it’s the onset of what my cousin called “Swedish death cleaning” or just a desire to not trip over junk every time I enter a room, I’m just clearing out things I don’t use anymore. I’ve set aside bags of clothes that the kids have outgrown or that I haven’t worn for months or years; toys, dishes, or small appliances that haven’t seen the light of day for ages; and of course the various pieces and broken things that someone says they’ll fix or find a use for. For the most part, the decision to toss something is easy, and I know there won’t be any regrets.
And then there’s this sweater.
It was my mom’s, part of a set that my dad bought her one Christmas. The black velvet pants have long since been discarded; they were not well made at all. But I still have this sweater that I seldom wear. Why not, you may ask. It is lovely, and very warm, and the colors fit into my preferred palettes.
Well, as is the case with a lot of my clothes of late, it doesn’t fit and honestly hasn’t for a long time. It’s very snug, so much so that I’m always afraid I’ll stretch it out or tear it trying to put it on or take it off. You see, my mother was smaller than I in both stature and girth. In fact, I was already taller and bigger than her by the time I was twelve, so even as a teenager, I was reluctant to borrow it.
So why have I kept it all these years? Why is it still in my closet? The obvious response would be sentimentality. I want to keep it to remember my mother.
But let’s be honest. I did not have a good relationship with my mother. More often than not, we were at odds, and she always managed to say something scathing that left me with hurt feelings. Even now, sixteen years after her death, I still read social media posts from friends extolling the rich relationships they have with their mothers, reveling in the friendship and the shared interests they have with their mothers, and I envy and mourn what I never had. I’m not sure I’d have it even if she were still alive.
So why do I keep this sweater if not to keep alive the precious memories I have of her? The answer is, I really don’t know. I suppose in some way it seems wrong to get rid of something that was a token of my father’s love for my mother. But why should it be wrong? They’re both gone, together in their eternal rest, and neither needs the sweater to remind them of their shared love.
Maybe I’ve kept it as my own reminder, not only of my mother, but also of my parents’ marriage, which had lasted fifty-four years before my dad died. They had their share of good times, and more than their share of hard times, but they stayed together and faithful through it all. That Christmas sweater is just one such memento of something I do want to remember.
But I ask myself as I have many times before, do I need this sweater to remember my parents and their love for each other? Or is it just another piece of clutter in my closet? After all, aren’t I building my own family and my own love story, both of which come with their own souvenirs, which I know my boys will have to deal with someday.
So much in life is holding on and letting go, and knowing when to do both.
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