Claws & Crochet

Part 17

ZOEY

Grandma Minnie's closet is an organized mess. At first glance, everything seems orderly. Arranged in neat boxes and tucked onto shelves. But then, once my eyes finish enjoying the beauty of a well-put together space, I'm overwhelmed with the massive amount of stuff.

When I start taking out boxes, I realize at one point this was a walk-in closet.

Now it's a storage locker of random things Minnie felt the need to hold onto.

Hopefully, I'm not about to find thirty-year-old newspapers in these shoe boxes. Although, that would make the decision about whether to throw it out or keep it easy.

The size of this task intimidates me. So much so that I feel the need to sit on the bed and stare at the closet and mentally prepare myself.

Other people might think my ideas for the furniture refurbishment are the daunting ones. All that sanding and staining and reupholstering. And sure, those projects will take up a good chunk of time. But time isn't what scares me. Time is the whole reason I came to Grandma Minnie's cabin.

This closet has me pausing because of the emotional strength I'm worried I might need to get through this.

Dragging out all these items seems akin to poking at a woman's inner self. This closet is all that's left of Minnie's treasured possessions. Like a fragment of her soul she left behind.

Am I the right person to sort these things? To make decisions about them?

Is this closet the reason months went by without Mom making any mention of coming here to deal with the house?

"Sitting on the bed isn't getting anything done," I scold myself.

Too much sentimentality. Minnie is gone, and this closet is just stuff.

With a fortifying breath, I shove up from the old squeaky mattress and zero in on the first box.

Opening it seems almost anti-climactic. Boots.

The box reads Carver's Shoes, a shop I drove by on Main Street the other day. No surprise that Minnie shopped local. The boots are nice, barely worn. On a whim, I slip one on. Pretty good fit, which is surprising seeing as how Minnie was a half a foot taller than me if Mom told it right.

Guess I have big feet.

I set the box to the side of the room I designate as the "Keep" side. The next box in the stack is bigger and contains some worn flannel shirts and thick knitted cardigans. Weirdly, my grandmother's frumpy mountain woman clothes are exactly what's in style. Despite them being a few sizes larger than my normal, I place the box next to the boots.

Last box in the first stack has ratty old sheets, which make for good drop clothes.

I keep them too.

"Maybe I'm not so good at this clear-out-the-house business," I mutter to myself while reaching for the next container.

This one is different, a wooden box about the size of a toaster oven. It sits on the top of a middle stack, easily accessible.

Curiosity peaked and worries set at ease after dealing with relatively impersonal materials so far, I place the wooden box on the floor and plop down in front of it. There's a brass latch, but no lock, so I don't expect any kind of valuables when I open the lid.

Still, the contents surprise me.

Cassette tapes. Neatly arranged in rows, as if this box was built for the exact purpose of housing them. I count them, coming up with just over forty.