“Get it together Kit,” I coached myself, as I lugged the last basket of his damp clothes to the line at the bottom of the garden. “You didn't cry this much at the funeral!”
Losing Peter was sudden, to say the least. I went through the days after he died in a relatively pleasant Xanax-induced haze. (I’d totally recommend it, in the circumstances.) It’s taken me almost a year to face going through his things though, and despite the fact that he’s been gone for almost twelve months now, somehow this bit seems the most final of all.
I know Peter would want any of his clothes that were up to it to be donated to a charity shop. He hated waste, so it stands to reason. And, to be fair, he was in his own way quite the fashionista. Oxfam will be lucky to get his very last collection - a stylish mix of smart and casual.
To think of the years I griped about our wardrobe. It wasn't half big enough to contain both of our stuff. Trying to find what I was looking for among the outfits wedged into the available hanging space used to drive me demented. Since I've taken out Peter’s stuff I can freely browse through dresses I haven’t seen in years. I haven’t cried so much in years either though.
I have downsized his collection in the past, of course. Mainly by shrinking his cashmere-mix sweaters. In contrast this time, though he’s never going to wear them again, I've never been more careful about taking heed of the care labels on the damned sweaters. Not one of them has changed size or shape, even a little bit.
I used to think I hated laundry. This laundry is a totally different kettle of fish, and one I’m not coping well with at all. This, the actual final load of his washing I’ll ever do, is about a hundred, no, make that a thousand, times worse than any laundry I've ever done before.
It’s a shame the Xanax prescription has long since run out.
