The grey dress.

Your mother gave it to me. She was always buying me cute outfits.

I remember you saying, “You’re the kind of girly daughter she’s always wanted.”

I feel your resentment for me budding in that moment.

I throw it in the pile.

The off-white hoodie.

It was one of the first times any of us had had wine (Manischewitz and it tasted like juice).

Your brother spilt his wine on me and apologized so profusely that I couldn’t help adoring him.

Most of it came out in the wash, except a few pink flecks that always reminded me of that dinner.

I throw it in the pile.

The blue dress.

I wish I hadn’t worn it on that horrible day, when we met and you wouldn’t even look at me.

I’d worn it on dozens of other occasions to make me feel strong and beautiful.

But I can’t remember any of those now; only the time when it couldn’t.

I throw it in the pile.

The grey fleece zip-up.

Frankly, I don’t know how I survived winters before I met you.

Between your mom’s gifts and your hand-me-downs, I pretty much have to eliminate my entire winter wardrobe.

Nothing could keep me warm this past winter anyway.

I throw it in the pile.

The perfect dress.

Ah, this one is the hardest; it was my very favorite dress.

But I wore it to our engagement celebration dinner.

And then there’s the photo from a game night not too long ago where you have your arms around me and the gaze you’re casting on me looks convincingly like love.

I try to throw it in the pile.

Maybe I can manage it tomorrow. For now, I’m going to sleep. Enough purging for one evening.