We were cleaning out the closet. Me, my sister, and our mom. At the time, it felt like the most mundane job on the planet, akin to doing mine work in a hot desert. Of course, it wasn't really that bad.
      The wardrobe was smooth and polished wood. Not the kind of thing that would give you splinters at all. I could still see the patterns of the tree rings in it. Where did those trees come from? Far away or closer to home?
      The pants were pink, with cartoonish brown cats on them. When I tried them on, the elastic in the waistline was all bunched up. They were a little too short, allowing my bony ankles to stick out. The fabric had become felted over time. Making them slightly fuzzy. Softer. Broken in. Nothing that was ever loved looks brand new. My mom sewed them on her sewing machine. The pants were a labor of love, formed with her own two hands. She could have bought them. But that wouldn't have shown that she cared about me enough. So she made them.
      She asked me if I wanted to keep them. We were, after all, trying to get rid of old clothes. I was on the fence about it. I couldn't decide. I was really rather neutral about it. I shouldn't have been. They were sewn with a mother's love. I should have held onto them forever, treated them like a prized family heirloom. I should have held onto them.
      I didn't. I tossed them right into the trash bag. I wanted to get the closet over with. I didn't mean to be callous, but I was. The action was an example of my own self-absorption. My mom let out a tear after I did that. Maybe more, but at least one. The regret was instant. I changed my mind as soon as I saw her cry. I tried to pull them back out of the bag. My mom said don’t bother. You made your decision. The harm was done.