A Box for Goodwill

Flash Fiction

As a friend, I had come to help once more. I watched as Gayle set the cardboard boxes on the floor. Two were labeled for Goodwill in large black letters in indelible ink. Maybe this time, Gayle would be able to follow through.

From the closet, Gayle pulled out an old blue suit that time had faded. I could see in her eyes the memories still had not. Gently, she smoothed the empty sleeves that dangled from the jacket, then the trousers that hung flat and limp over the smooth wooden hanger.

As she brushed the dust away, I heard her sigh. That’s what I was afraid of. Gayle's resolve had melted again.  We sat on the edge of the bed while she remembered and I encouraged her to talk.

She spoke of long ago, how the sleeves had encircled her in warm, secure hugs. The trousers covered muscular thighs and bowed legs that loved to dance. I remembered from the other times, hearing what she missed most was the heart beneath the lapel, the heart that beat with love for her.

For nearly sixty years that suit had stood sentinel, faithfully guarding her and those memories. I watched as she carefully replaced the jacket and trousers on the wooden hanger, hung it back on the closet rod and closed the door.  No more memories today.

Through quiet tears Gayle asked again, "How could all of that ever fit in a box for Goodwill?"

Published Poet/Writer/Author of 5 books.
Quora Top Writer 2018
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[from the book, “Bits and Pieces from a Writer’s Soul, a Collection of 20 Short Stories”]