Packing.
Preparing to go back to a place I once was.
A place I had just left.
I hadn't even had time to unpack properly.
I sift through the clothes left in the boxes;
untouched for three months.
Dust arises, I sneeze.
I find a warm knit sweater
that I love and place it in one pile;
A shirt someone had given me that I know I'll never wear,
I place it in the other.
Odd.
Deciding year after year what to take
and what to leave behind.
Every year it changes.
Style, size, comfort; it all changes.
I pull out a pair of old jeans,
my favorite ones.
They looked terrible,
but when I put them on I felt beautiful.
I had held onto these through each packing, each unpacking.
They had almost come to define me.
Smilingly, I start folding them for the "take" pile, and stop.
There's a rip.
I hadn't noticed it before.
But it's there, plain as day.
I scramble to find a needle and thread to tie up the loose ends.
Or a patch to tame the frayed area.
It can't be.
I've had them for so long.
They're a part of me.
How do I leave them behind?
Distressed, I attempt to wear the jeans with the rip.
Perhaps if I had tried enough I could fool myself.
A moment of clarity.
One. But it was enough.
I pulled off the jeans, folded them neatly,
and placed them with the ugly shirt.
I sighed, a tinge of remorse in my movement.
The jeans had served me well,
but they had tied me down for years.
I knew I couldn't let them define me anymore.
Some loose ends aren't worth tying.
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