Chapter 26 - The closet becomes a closet
Three years after the storm, I bought a townhouse.
Not huge.
Three bedrooms.
Small yard.
Finished basement.
Upstairs hall closet.
Lizzy was nine.
The first time we toured, she opened every door.
Bedroom.
Bathroom.
Laundry.
Closet.
She stepped inside the hall closet.
I froze.
Not visibly, I hoped.
She looked around.
“Big.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Can this be my art closet?”
I stared.
“Your what?”
“Shelves.”
She pointed.
“Paint can go there. Paper. Glitter.”
“Absolutely no glitter.”
“Auntie.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Some glitter.”
We compromised because apparently I had learned nothing about negotiation.
We removed no door.
No dramatic demolition.
The closet became storage.
Art supplies.
Winter coats.
A vacuum.
One Saturday, Lizzy sat inside it by choice while making friendship bracelets.
Door open.
Music playing.
I walked past.
Stopped.
She looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the weird face.”
“What weird face?”
“The sad-happy face.”
Children are brutal observers.
I leaned against the frame.
“You okay in here?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Door stays—”
“I know.”
I stopped.
She was not six anymore.
The room had changed because her relationship to it changed.
Not because closets themselves were evil.
I walked away.
Ten minutes later she shouted:
“Auntie, bring snacks!”
I yelled:
May you like
“You have legs!”
Healing.
