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I went through my closets, throwing away the clothes she'd given me.

All were old. Some were tatty. Few still fit.

Made me sad. These material things were once among those that bound us together, through the metamorphoses of our different relationships over the years. As though a sweater could be a bridge to a lost friend. Or its warmth a reminder of hers.

Afterwards my closets looked empty.

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This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.
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