My OperaThe Closet
Saturday, May 6, 2006 7:00:21 PM
It is a small closet upstairs in the corner of my room, a still place full of familiar things. The closet door is always open and the friendly sounds from within are softened by the silence.
The clothing racks are crammed full of an eclectic mix of colors and patterns. There are a few proper old business suits in plastic wraps and polished cotton shirts, all acquaintances from a different time. A Marine Corps uniform, still brandishing its gleaming brass buttons and deep blue hues, is tucked away in the corner facing the wall and looking mutely away from me. A few wrinkled cotton trousers and washed out jerseys now occupy the easy to get to positions on the racks. They all have stories to tell.
Along one wall is a three-tiered shoe rack haphazardly organized with worn out running shoes and aged loafers. Black tied shoes and burgundy casuals are piled carelessly on top of each other. But, in the corner of the top rack sit an elegant pair of tan wingtips, still looking respectable in spite of the thick layer of dust obscuring their polish. Next to the dusty tan wingtips sit a pair of soft white infant's boots, nestled closely to the wingtips as if under the protection of the older shoes. The stately tan wingtips and white infant shoes hold what I imagine to be the most honored position on the shoe rack. These wingtips belonged to my father and they whisper quietly words that are his.
The clothing racks are crammed full of an eclectic mix of colors and patterns. There are a few proper old business suits in plastic wraps and polished cotton shirts, all acquaintances from a different time. A Marine Corps uniform, still brandishing its gleaming brass buttons and deep blue hues, is tucked away in the corner facing the wall and looking mutely away from me. A few wrinkled cotton trousers and washed out jerseys now occupy the easy to get to positions on the racks. They all have stories to tell.
Along one wall is a three-tiered shoe rack haphazardly organized with worn out running shoes and aged loafers. Black tied shoes and burgundy casuals are piled carelessly on top of each other. But, in the corner of the top rack sit an elegant pair of tan wingtips, still looking respectable in spite of the thick layer of dust obscuring their polish. Next to the dusty tan wingtips sit a pair of soft white infant's boots, nestled closely to the wingtips as if under the protection of the older shoes. The stately tan wingtips and white infant shoes hold what I imagine to be the most honored position on the shoe rack. These wingtips belonged to my father and they whisper quietly words that are his.
