No, I'm imagining Dom being all practical, and "Why take up space in your closet with shoes you can't wear? Get some replacements!"

Great topic, Tep. And the summer job ones were excellent -- I kept meaning to do one, and then didn't.

A Box in the Back of the Closet

I don’t take it out much anymore. I’ve lost the need, somewhere along the line. It’s hard enough to find some joy every day without examining old hurts.

But I used to. Every wound – into the box it went, bundled away from the light and wrapped in tissue, as if I needed to protect it. They survive just fine without precautions, I’ve found.

I’d take out that box when I was already sunk deep. As if I needed to pour salt in the wounds, or adding old pain to the new would make the loneliness or the anger more real.

But Bree wouldn't keep 'em (that's for Teppy). Also, truly? Never had a cat that ate shoes. The only shoe-eating incident of my life was courtesy of my friend Kate's terrier mix, Beeker. The little bitch somehow got into my closet, pulled down ALL my shoeboxes, got them open, and ate one of each pair.

Kate flew back from NYC two days early after my call to get Beeker, because I told her I was not safe to not beat her precious pup to death with one of my demolished Charles Jourdans.

Amy, must be nice to be able to lose the need.

It's a bit hopeful, Deb. I'm not quite there yet, but I don't do it the way I used to.

I've known cats who like to put things in shoes. . .

Mine don't chew up shoes-- their weapon of choice against the evil shoe creatures is generally vomit.

I suspect I'll sit back and enjoy everyone else's drabbles on this particular topic. Anything I could write on this one might be too painful, even for me.

OK, trying this drabble thing.

The drywall with its telltale watermarks is gone, but there must have been eighteen inches. And a leak up high in the closet; things I know were up on a shelf are soaked. Shifting the sodden masses to the back door, I give up the game of trying to determine where the ruin ends.

When I find the box marked “Wedding Dress” I’m afraid to open it. I’ll never wear it again, it shouldn’t matter if it’s ruined. I never got around to preservation - the box is just cardboard, labeled with a Sharpie. Somehow, still light, still dry, pristine.

Oh, -t. Ouch.