Letting Go

Twice a year he examines his clothes
closet for things to be taken to the
second-hand store. “What haven’t I worn
for a year?” he asks himself checking
himself on what he let pass six-months
ago — a pair of really nice hiking boots
(“Hey, I’ve got two left,” he reminds
himself.), two polyester tees for jogging
and casual wear which don’t fit all that
well anyway, a pair of really, really nice,
nearly new jogging shoes which he won’t
wear now that he has discovered the maximal-
ist brand with the crazy name, which make him
feel like he’s jogging on clouds. Then he
moves to the guest bedroom where his wife
says, “We have to do something to upgrade
this stuff; it’s too big for the room,” —
said stuff being the solid maple bed frame
which he has had since he was a kid and has
dragged all over creation and which has the
image of the cracked Liberty Bell carved
into the headboard that he still thinks looks
more like a jack-rabbit’s head and the solid
maple dresser that has about a much family
history. He looked at the room and said, “It’s
solid stuff, in really great shape.” He hes-
itated and said, “I agree; it’s more than
time to downsize and move on. Maybe some
kid will get the bed frame and think it
really looks like a jack-rabbit’s head
instead of the Liberty Bell, too.”

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