I get such a buzz out of cleaning out drawers. Give me a junk drawer, and I’ll have it separated, organized, banded and labeled in no time at all. It doesn’t even have to be my drawer. I’ve oft fantasized about those custom acrylic drawer organizers that make everything look like an Anthropologie display. My friend Kristen actually has them in her New York kitchen with the smoke gray wood floors. She makes beautiful food. I know the two are related, somehow.

Having revealed my need for control, I’m getting a little weary of cleaning out closets not mine. I remember watching my Gram, on her knees, tears sliding down her face, pulling my grandfather’s shoes out of the closet to put in a plastic garbage bag that my mother stoically held. I was ten, and we were in River Edge, New Jersey.

Beau’s closet. Mom’s closet. My kids’ closets. I’ve become my mother. Strong. Denying feckless inactivity. I keep moving, preferably forward, learning always from the lessons life teaches.

I know my mom cried when she finished what had to be done. Me too.

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