On the remembering

There are pieces—more like remnants, really—everywhere.  Tiny things.  Things she would have missed on the way out.  To be honest, they had stopped showing up after the first year.  After the second, they were scooped up and thrown into trash or donated to Goodwill if they were feasible.  After a while I didn’t think about it.  I just threw them out.

Old makeup. A sock that wasn’t mine.  Pencils, everywhere.

But the large orange coat was a surprise.

It was a summer when I found it, hidden as it was behind plastic and cloth and boxes.  It was hung away for winter, two winters ago.  A long knit rainbow scarf hung around the neck, and all of it was in a too small canvas garment bag.

It had been in the closet for a while, clearly.  It still hung there waiting, a huge orange monstrosity made out of wool and buttons.

When I found it, I stared.  For a second, I considered it a coat I had bought and stored.  But it wasn’t mine.

Then, suddenly, it was hers.  I didn’t remember.  I forgot to remember.

Or did remember to forget?