I wish my record player wasn't already packed. I could really use some good old scratched Jimi Hendrix, Dave Brubeck, The Doors or even The Muppets. Judas Priest just isn't cutting it as a soundtrack to the milky-sweet haze of the past that surfaces when I dig into my Old Stuff.
I'm going through my closet and dresser drawers today-- a whole history of clothes. My wedding dress, the one I jubilantly wore almost two summers ago in a field in Vermont, is now packed. The shirt I was wearing while in labor with my (not-so) wee one is hanging over my shoulder while I decide its fate. There are two (so far) garbage bags full of clothes I've outworn, outgrown, or never quite grew into.
It feels as though I'm saying goodbye to all the Sarahs who inhabited each and every item of clothing I've touched today-- even those that are coming with me. They'll be worn by a different Sarah by the time they get where they're going.
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