Day 7: Bed Linens

Sheets, pillow cases, comforter, quilt. I repacked them all in their original plastic, zippered pouches two days after my husband moved out. Like the bedroom curtains, they were quick to be replaced. I held onto them reasoning that they were too large and functional enough that I couldn't just wrap them in garbage bags and place them on the curb. If I ever had a guest spend the night I'd use them on my spare air mattress. My rational mind is laughing at this prospect, knowing that I would use the set of sheets I purchased solely to provide for guests. I wouldn't spend another night on these, I can't imagine setting someone else up to do so.

Although these cumbersome bags were taking up a large amount of space in my closet, the emotional weight is far worse than the clutter. Just before I moved to Georgia, my mother and I went shopping for household items. My husband was still stationed in Germany and wouldn't have cared to accompany me even if he was home.  Shopping for anything decorative proved to be a challenge. I recall finding a beautifully embroidered off-white bedspread and reluctantly returning it to the shelf because I knew my husband would not have approved. "I'm sure he'll like whatever you get," my mother reasoned, but I knew he wouldn't. Instead I bought the pale green comforter and later an equally dull, bland green bedspread. In the end, he never seemed to care about what color they were and only complained that they were too heavy, too heat producing. He'd crank the AC to freezing and steal them away in the night.

For day seven I offer these bed linens that I never liked and have held onto because I've been too reluctant to cut the emotional ties that they have wound around me, tighter than the cocoon my husband formed against the freezing air.