hanging.

This weekend we helped Kevin's parents unpack their storage unit. It was filled to the top, boxes and furniture that once filled a 4-bedroom house with two young children. Now that they've downsized to a much smaller condo, it was time to finally empty out the things they'd amassed throughout their life as newlyweds, young parents, empty-nesters. I was eager to help - I pride myself on being ruthless when it comes to getting rid of old stuff, realistically assessing if I'll ever wear that sweater ever again, feeling secure enough to move on and leave some of the past behind. I implored Kevin's parents to get rid of a small orange tent they've had for 35 years - the tent they used on their cross-country honeymoon trip.

"I've known your family for 5 years and you've been camping approximately 0 times," I said.

"I know, but what if our grandchildren want to go camping?"

"Like we'd ever let our kids go camping in a 35-year old tent that's been sitting in a storage unit!" I said, the idea absurd to me even though we don't even have children. I just couldn't understand the reason for keeping it. Yes, it's a sentimental piece of their honeymoon. But it's also an old pile of nylon that's probably moldy and torn by now.

"Remember, all this stuff doesn't just take up physical space," I said, smugly paraphrasing from an article I'd read, "it takes up emotional and mental space. Even if you don't use it, you know it's there, which adds clutter to your brain."

My mother-in-law loves me too much to call me out on my self-righteous rant, and later that night, as I cleaned out my own closet, I was thankful she hadn't.

*

Two years and three months ago, I walked into Ann Taylor and called my mother-in-law. She's an etiquette expert, and I really didn't have any time to waste. None of the stores I'd checked were carrying simple black dresses - their spring lines were filled with bright colors, flowers, and eye-catching patterns.

"Can I wear white?" I asked. "Our flight is tomorrow and I can't find anything that's plain black or navy."

I don't actually remember what she said, but she gave me the ok to purchase a white silk dress with flowy cap sleeves and a black sash that tied in a bow around the waist. It was a much more elegant dress than I was used to wearing, and the bow and sleeves were more feminine than I generally liked. And it was full price. But I didn't really care what the dress cost or looked like, as long as I could wear it to Alison's funeral.

*

I hugged some old friends from high school and gave Alison's mother an envelope of photos I'd found in my bedroom at my parents' house: Alison and I jumping on a bed in a hotel, making silly faces on a bus, hugging in the hallways at school, sitting on the gym floor in our dirty, sweaty volleyball uniforms. I hugged her mother, but barely felt her. She shook a little in my arms and then released me, preparing herself for the line of people waiting to say, "I'm sorry" and nothing else that would ever sound right.

After the service, Kevin and I went to my grandparents' house. Since we were living in Nashville at the time, we were grateful for the chance to visit them. My grandfather placed a bowl of cut-up fruit on the table and my grandmother told me she thought my dress was beautiful. They couldn't exactly remember Alison, but they knew they'd seen her in the many years we played volleyball together. They looked uncomfortable when I said that it didn't make sense, reminding them that she was my age. Twenty-eight years of life, suddenly gone.

*

Eight months later I wandered around Banana Republic in a daze. When a saleswoman asked if I needed help, I didn't instinctively push her away to browse on my own. I asked her if the dress in my hands, a navy dress with white polka dots, looked too festive for a funeral.

"Hmm," she thought, "it might be a little too festive. Let's look around." She helped me find a grey v-neck wool dress that would be suitable for the wake, and a sleeveless black dress with large off-white circles for the funeral. I didn't want to wear solid black - after all, this was supposed to be a celebration of life - but I didn't want to break any rules. The saleswoman assured me that the dress would be fine. A couple days later, I wore it with a bright pink sweater and delivered the eulogy I'd written for my grandfather.

*

I've worn the black dress many times since that cold day in January. I've worn it to work, to parties, to church, to Thanksgiving dinner. I wore it to another funeral this year. It's turned out to be an important dress - it's still the dress I wore to my grandfather's funeral, but it's also been around for many celebrations. Each time I put it on I feel a sting in my heart, but it always passes, quietly, like my grandfather finally did after 87 years of life.

*

As I pulled dresses, shirts, jeans, and pants out of my closet to donate to Goodwill, I felt energized. Many of the clothes were in great shape, but my rule was that if I hadn't worn something in over a year, it was time to move on. I sadly added a black-and-white striped dress to the pile, the one and only piece of clothing Kevin had bought for me. Unfortunately, as I so often do, I'd thrown it in the washing machine instead of properly reading the label, and the lovely silk layers had become stiff and rough. It was sentimental, a sweet gift he'd given me for my birthday while we were still dating, but I didn't need a dress to remember him or our relationship. I hadn't worn the dress in over a year, and it was ok to let it go.

I pulled out the white silk dress with the black sash. I'd only worn it once. Several times after the funeral I'd put it on, intending to wear it out, then found a reason why it just didn't look right or I wasn't comfortable in it. It always returned to the closet, where it's been hanging for over two years.

I know I'll never wear it again. I don't want to. It's not my style, but more importantly, something in me refuses to let go of that warm day in May 2011. Something that tells me it still doesn't make sense. Still doesn't add up. Alison didn't die peacefully and quietly after a long life - she died suddenly and unexpectedly with so much life yet ahead of her. Whenever I take out the white dress I remember standing between my sister and Kevin at the back of the synagogue; all the seats were taken and people kept pouring in. Nobody could pretend this was a celebration, nobody looked like they'd made peace with what had happened. I stood there, quietly crying, shifting my feet because I wasn't used to standing for so long in heels.

The sensible thing to do would be to send the dress to Goodwill, let some other woman find it and delight at finding such a beautiful dress at a thrift store. I should put it in a bag and send it away, not only to clear out some physical space in the closet, but to clear out the emotional space it's been quietly taking up in my heart and mind. Maybe then I would stop having dreams where Alison shows up, much to the surprise and delight of everyone. In those dreams I never feel sad - only thrilled to learn that she didn't die after all, that the car accident never happened, that even though we hadn't been in touch in a while she still existed in the world and was living out her life.

But I'm just not ready. And maybe there are other reasons Kevin's parents can't let go of some of things in that storage unit, even if they're dusty and old and impractical, even though it's obvious the reason they're hanging on to some of this stuff is that they're hanging on to memories they just can't let go of. Good memories, painful memories, memories of life before anyone had ever died, or left home, or had their heart broken.

And maybe that's ok. Maybe with enough time, we all find our own way to let go of the tents and the dresses and the photos and everything they represent. And maybe someday I will, too.