Thrift Shop Blues

By Joanne Jagoda

A rainy Wednesday, on a mission to clear my closets,
getting my house ready to sell,
I head to a thrift shop benefiting cancer research.
Streets packed, sidewalk covered in a lush red and gold carpet of fall leaves.
Arms loaded with two overflowing bags, I trek to the store,
toting dresses I had worn to the weddings of my three daughters
and other fancy clothes hidden under plastic for years.
Hardly ever get dressed up these days,
but too sentimental to part with the clothes,
each a repository of rich memories from a singular event.
Finding the right outfit, a saga in itself— I love the hunt,
for shoes and accessories.
It’s hard to give away the long magenta gown
with a matching satin jacket, so elegant,
and the turquoise two piece with rhinestones.
I loved that outfit.
The store bustles with Christmas shoppers
scoring their holiday bargains.
The hassled clerk at the register barely nods,
points to the back where I should drop my bags.
I foolishly want to tell her about each piece
when I wore it, give her the history,
but she doesn’t care and has no time for me.
Clutching the empty donation receipt,
it strikes me I’m leaving breadcrumbs of my life,
for strangers to fondle or simply cast aside,
flipping, through hangers on crowded racks.
I know this is how it will be from now on,
as I downsize and give away pieces of myself,
one by one, things I used to love
remnants of whom I used to be.
In the end I know, it’s just stuff,
but it’s my stuff and it hurts.
I wipe away a few tears
and traipse through damp streets
as rain gently falls.

Photo by Hugo Clément on Unsplash