A tattered, black garbage bag of maternity clothes sat by the stairs.
It had been in the back of my closet, then moved to the basement of our old apartment, where it sat for years.
It must have been moved into the basement of our new house last fall.
It suddenly appeared in the corner of my bedroom, a few weeks ago.
I’m assuming my husband found it in the basement and moved it up to the bedroom so I could sort through it, which I did, after about a week of scorning its slovenly presence in my room.
As I sifted through the XL contents of that bag, which I had to open with a cesarean slit because the knot at the top was too tight, memories came.
There were clothes from my pregnancies with both Jack and Emily.
I found the dress I wore to Valentine dinner with my husband, when I was only a few months along with Jack, and not even showing yet, but yearning to get into the spirit of the endeavor and wear the clothes with almost marsupial space for what would grow beneath.
I found the corduroy pants I wore to the hospital to give birth to Emily. I found the couple of shirts that I wore almost constantly at the end of my pregnancy with Em because she was ginormous, and I had almost nothing that fit me.
I found memories of stroking my stomach as I waddled along with my precious, golden eggs nested under my ribs.
I put the Valentine dress into a pile with the dress I wore to my baby shower, and the tie back shirts that really screamed, Look at my belly! I’m carrying a baby under here!
In another pile I put a stack of pants and tee shirts that really held no meaning for me.
The first pile went into an enormous zip lock bag, and back into the back of my closet.
The second pile was crammed back into the torn garbage bag and plopped back by the stairs.
It sat there for a week. Or two.
The went into the trunk of my car.
It traveled down the street to the Salvation Army, where I pulled it out and pushed it into the yawning mouth of the bin.