I bought a new bathrobe.
While this means nothing significant to the Population at Large, it’s actually a big deal for me. It’s the start of a new chapter, and the end of another.
Before I got married, back when people still used typewriters, only birds tweeted, and seat-belt usage was optional, my husband bought me a robe-thick terry cloth, pink, and warm. I’ve used it nearly every day since. It’s become a metaphor of sorts.
Now, twenty-two years later, the color has dulled and the robe is thread-bare. There are holes and tears. It’s really ugly. I have to let it go: it’s not possible to repair the damage it’s incurred. My robe is too broken.
The new robe one of my own choosing. A brighter pink, a shorter length. It’s softer and more comfortable than the old one ever was. The new robe wasn’t expensive; it’s nothing fancy or extravagant, but it is just right for me. Wrapped up in it last night, I felt warm for the first time in a long time.
Nothing lasts forever. Things fall apart, life changes, and we must adapt however we can. But, there’s the softness of new bathrobes, new roads to travel, and a small tender hope that sits quietly next to the fear born in a new beginning.
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“We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come. -” -Joseph Campbell
