A Box for Goodwill
Flash Fiction
As a friend, I came to help once more and I watched as Gayle set the cardboard box on the floor. Just as I remembered, it was labeled for Goodwill in large black block letters. Maybe this time, she would be able to follow through.
From the closet, she pulled out an old blue suit that was faded by time. What I saw in her eyes told me the memories still had not. Gently, she smoothed the empty sleeves of the jacket, then the trousers hanging flat and empty over the wooden hanger.
As she brushed the dust away, I heard her sigh. That’s what I was afraid of, Gayle's resolve was melting down again. We sat on the bed and while she remembered, I encouraged her to talk.
She spoke of long ago, how the jacket’s sleeves were strong and alive and they encircled her in warm, secure hugs. The trousers had covered muscular, bowed legs —legs that loved to dance. I knew where this was going from the other times. She spoke of what she missed most, the heart that beat beneath the lapel. It beat with love for only her.
For fifty years that suit stood sentinel guarding her and those memories. I watched as she carefully replaced the jacket and trousers on the smooth wooden hanger and hung it back on the closet rod. Then she closed the closet door. No more today. Maybe another time.
Through quiet tears Gayle asked once more, "How could all of that ever fit in a box for Goodwill?