I pulled my hair into a long ponytail and rolled up my sleeves. Time to air out memories, pushing dark shades back. I brooked no funerals.

I only meant to dust them off, to tuck sweet-scented flowers in their folds and hang them up again, but the first one I pulled out I knew I had to wear.

I held it close. "Oh, I love this one," I whispered, the fabric of the memory, all it was made of, rubbing my cheek. Well-made memories like to greet you with a kiss and a warm embrace.

I ran down the stairs, the old memory trailing behind me. My sister saw and laughed. "What is it? You look so happy!"

"Remember?" I said. "I got it a couple of years back." 

I twirled. She clapped an encore, so I obliged and pirouetted the brightness around the house. I wore my memory with delight; I wore it fresh.

Every memory from that closet told a story with its colors and material and shape. The smell of a memory, its rustle against my hand, a sharp crease that scolded me: "See how long you left me there?"

The closet door remained ajar when I finished, like a wardrobe full of firs. The chest beside it creaked for my attention, telling me to sort my priorities, mixing in some hope and goodwill. The lovely past does that to a chest of plans and maps to the future.

Everyone knows it's not that you wear a memory, it's how you wear it. There is skill and wisdom to it. Wear the memory with joy. Wear it in love.

end