I step in and I am transported back.

Flooded with memories of my making.

The clothing I now view as my collection.

They bring me sweet smiles each day while I debate what will be worn.

The sleeve of that dress I had on the first time the man I liked grabbed my hand. When I look at it, I can feel the texture and warmth of his touch in my palm.

The sweatshirt I stole from my brother’s closet freshman year in college. The edges worn, the letters faded. It’s now Sidney’s favorite. When I ask her why she takes it she tells me “it smells like you Momma“.

There’s the scarf my best friend gave me for Christmas one year that I wore on a colder then usual December vacation to Disney.

The cream blazer I splurged on was the first big purchase I hadn’t needed to “clear” with anyone, a reminder of the independence I now have.

And those running shoes. Always off to the side, ready to slide on each morning. A new pair every 6 months or so. Medals of all the miles logged.

For years I would walk into spaces like this in homes I made and question my worth. The skirt that felt too tight. The shirt that couldn’t hide what I thought needed hiding.

Gradually those feelings faded and all that is left is the goodness in those pieces.

And now when I find my niece standing in the center of that closet wearing my heels or Sidney in the Wittenberg sweatshirt, I feel such joy.

The clothes are comfort.

The fabric, memories of a life well lived.