Tonight begins Gluttony Season. We indulge in everything known to be unhealthy. Why? Because it is Halloween. The day after Halloween. Everything is on a big, post-Halloween sale. It's nearing Thanksgiving. It's the holidays. It's after Turkey Day and we've got so many leftovers. It goes on. We gorge and we rest and we work so we can afford to gorge.
Let the gluttony begin...
***
Last night. Thought about a costume. Didn't have much at home. Too tired to be creative and care. In the back of the closet I spied a suit bag, a suit bag that's lived in my various closets from Illinois through Indiana to Oregon and never once been opened.
I unzip it and inhale. My maternal grandfather's Army clothes. All these years. How'd I end up with it? Not a full uniform. A shirt pressed stifly. Patches adorn the front and sleeves. Another shirt behind it, same muted brown-green color, no patches. Behind it an overcoat, thick and like-colored. I pull out the first shirt. It is woolen, heavy. Scratchy fabric. I notice the hanger is bent badly and faded brown. I lay it down, take off my sweatshirt. Is it the cold air that gives me chills?
I slip on one arm, then the other. It scratches and my skin resists and I can't imagine anyone ever wearing this. I cannot see my grandfather, cannot recall his great visage. But my chills grow and my whole body tenses and shivers. I notice the quiet stealing over the room. Even the heat register is strangely mute.
I fasten a few buttons, dart to the bathroom. The mirror shows me swallowed in another man's shirt. I look and imagine tucking it in (to what?) and remember that my grandfather was not a man of large build. I look at the patches. And there it is. Was this shirt in a war? How many places has this shirt seen that I haven't? Germans? France? England? Places my grandfather discussed with no one. Were bloodstains scrubbed out from a dying friend? Did the shirt get smeared in mud when my grandfather crawled on hands and knees to warn the men one dark, sleepy night? It is the only war story I remember and the details feel faded, thin, vaporous. I was ten when he died and it feels all wrong in this shirt. Wrong and I dash back to the bedroom and gently fling it off me, breathing heavy. The sandpaper-quality fabric inflames my skin while I give the shirt a new hanger and replace it in the bag, zipper it closed.
Now I know why no one has looked at it. No one should wear it. What would I have done? Paraded around as a soldier-parody? The shirt deserves better. It hangs peacefully in the bronze suit bag, a treasure of a forgotten time and a paradox of a man. I used to think about displaying it. Nice glass case. Hang it on a wall. Now I'm not sure. Should we shove our memories to the back of the closet?
I unzip it and inhale. My maternal grandfather's Army clothes. All these years. How'd I end up with it? Not a full uniform. A shirt pressed stifly. Patches adorn the front and sleeves. Another shirt behind it, same muted brown-green color, no patches. Behind it an overcoat, thick and like-colored. I pull out the first shirt. It is woolen, heavy. Scratchy fabric. I notice the hanger is bent badly and faded brown. I lay it down, take off my sweatshirt. Is it the cold air that gives me chills?
I slip on one arm, then the other. It scratches and my skin resists and I can't imagine anyone ever wearing this. I cannot see my grandfather, cannot recall his great visage. But my chills grow and my whole body tenses and shivers. I notice the quiet stealing over the room. Even the heat register is strangely mute.
I fasten a few buttons, dart to the bathroom. The mirror shows me swallowed in another man's shirt. I look and imagine tucking it in (to what?) and remember that my grandfather was not a man of large build. I look at the patches. And there it is. Was this shirt in a war? How many places has this shirt seen that I haven't? Germans? France? England? Places my grandfather discussed with no one. Were bloodstains scrubbed out from a dying friend? Did the shirt get smeared in mud when my grandfather crawled on hands and knees to warn the men one dark, sleepy night? It is the only war story I remember and the details feel faded, thin, vaporous. I was ten when he died and it feels all wrong in this shirt. Wrong and I dash back to the bedroom and gently fling it off me, breathing heavy. The sandpaper-quality fabric inflames my skin while I give the shirt a new hanger and replace it in the bag, zipper it closed.
Now I know why no one has looked at it. No one should wear it. What would I have done? Paraded around as a soldier-parody? The shirt deserves better. It hangs peacefully in the bronze suit bag, a treasure of a forgotten time and a paradox of a man. I used to think about displaying it. Nice glass case. Hang it on a wall. Now I'm not sure. Should we shove our memories to the back of the closet?
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