There are ghosts in my wardrobe. They just hang there, limp and lifeless but full of memories. Some of them come out now and then and flaunt themselves around real people. Those ghosts are new and bold and full of confidence but soon they will be just like the rest of them.
Most of the ghosts in my wardrobe are friendly and want nothing more than to be noticed. If you listen really carefully you can hear them wailing softly sometimes, begging for freedom from their boxy prison. I know that I won’t let them out until its time for an exorcism.
The unfriendly ghosts are the ones that were only worn briefly. Some of those were exorcised at the scene of the crime as I couldn’t possibly take them home with me. They were discarded immediately and I mourn them sometimes, silly as it is.
The unfriendly ghosts are probably here to stay. I can’t accept that part of my life is over, not yet. When they first arrived, I used to spend time just looking at them, wishing they could be part of my life again, right away. If they were, I could go back and do things right perhaps? Oh, to get a second chance to make things different. Now, I know that I won’t ever change what happened but I’m glad I kept them. I’m still not ready to exorcise them.
To an outsider it might seems strange. Each ghost holds a memory for me, even the ones that have never been out. Each ghost represents a time in my life, a day, a moment, an occasion. Each ghost has a place in my life for a while.
One day the ghosts escaped and found themselves stuffed into my drawers, crumpled and struggling for breath. I wonder whether they long to be back in the wardrobe, hanging tall, yet squashed and un-loved… but tall, all the same.