I don’t worry how my old clothes
will look on their new owners at Goodwill.
They have places to be,
stories to live
beyond my closet.
Still, letting go feels strange.
I hesitated at the donation bin,
fingers brushing fabric worn soft
by years of routine.
Shirts that carried me through long days,
pants that held their shape
even when I didn’t,
sweaters that wrapped me in warmth
when I needed comfort.
Familiar, reliable—
but clothes, like memories,
aren’t meant to be hoarded.
And maybe, I realize,
I am ready to let them go—
ready to make space
for the person I am becoming,
not just the one I have been.
Now, my shirts might end up
on a college kid,
worn soft from late-night study sessions,
coffee stains mapping out
their ambitions.
My pants could find a new home
with a dad who needs extra pockets
for snacks, keys, and crumpled receipts
from weekends spent chasing his kids.
A Dolphins t-shirt might land
in the hands of someone
who doesn’t even watch football,
but wears it anyway
because it fits just right—
or because aqua and orange
make them feel bold.
Some pieces will travel far,
stuffed into suitcases
heading toward new cities,
new jobs, new beginnings.
Others will stay close,
worn by someone
who just needed
a warm sweater on a cold night.
I won’t know where they go,
but I like to think they’ll be loved,
threadbare in all the best ways,
living new lives
I’ll never see.
And as I walk away,
hands empty, closet lighter,
I expect to feel loss—
but instead, I feel space.
Room for new stories,
new routines,
new warmth—
not just in fabric,
but in the quiet that remains.
Maybe I’ll fill it with something new,
or maybe I’ll leave it open,
letting the quiet remind me
that not everything needs replacing.
That sometimes,
emptiness is its own kind of comfort,
a soft place to grow into something new.
