It is an uncomfortable task: sorting through the clothes you never wear with the intent of parting with the parts of yourself that no longer seem to fit when I did this the other day I found a t-shirt worn thin through the wash and it made me feel ashamed two mismatched socks lumped together with campfire smoke, laughter, words I never got to say and then, in the depths of a drawer I felt something, and I had forgotten it was there tears were streaming down my cheeks a pair of orange sweatpants gathered at my feet one hour, several tissues, two bloodshot eyes later stuffed into a bag, the bag jammed into my hand I resolved to finally give the last of his things away
That's when I ran into a man rummaging through a garbage can he spoke to me in French, with a lilt that felt familiar like friendship, like love, like everything good in the world so I waited until he paused to ask parlez-vous anglais? another pause and then with an unnecessary but sincere apology this man told me in broken English everything he wanted to say he felt alone, ashamed tired of begging for a life no one seemed to think worthy or even possible I listened for a while and didn’t know what to say but it felt wrong to let vulnerability die next to a pile of garbage so I handed this man my bag along with an explanation of its contents and how they came to be we exchanged names and he made sure, twice, that he got mine right Jane? Jane? I wish I could tell you what it meant that he double-checked I wish I could tell you who ended up with your orange sweatpants