Digging through my old clothes, filling a bag for the thrift store, I came upon my summer suit. A beauty: imported fabric, cream-white with pinstripes, perfectly tailored for me: or rather the man I was twenty-five years ago. I last wore it at my 30th class reunion, I had to lose twenty pounds to get into it then and it was still plenty tight. It remains a very nice suit, it's a luxury to have a suit that isn't a business black or blue or a frumpy brown. I should have taken it to Hawai'i. And left those pounds home.
Old clothes can become ghosts, in a sense. Hovering above the floor, hanging around in attics and closets, always there to remind you of what you once were. Sometimes they can be downright scary. Maybe I'll lose that weight, wear that suit again, start calling myself Professor Dandy as I hit the town. Or maybe I'll exorcise that demon by letting someone else have that summer suit.