By: Michael C. Keith

                                  Reasons are not like garments, the worse for wearing.
 –– Robert Devereux

Knowing he was not long for this world, Philip Desmond decided to clean out his closet. He had not done so in years, perhaps even decades. Throughout his life, his habit had been to create piles rather than use hangers or shelves for his clothes. On occasion, when his closet just became too stuffed and unruly, he would make a feeble attempt to organize it. Hang a few things here. Fold and shelve a shirt, a jacket there. Slightly smaller mounds remained, but they soon regained their former prominence.

Philip’s approach to closet maintenance could be summed up in one succinct phrase, “Out of sight, out of mind.” In general, the system had worked for him, although in the back of his mind he knew he would eventually have to make a genuine attempt to clean it out . . . not just move things around. Of course, after pondering the scope of the problem, he would invariably push the notion from his thoughts.

Now that Philip faced his imminent demise, he was determined not to leave such a mess for others to deal with. While he still possessed the energy to face the task, he knew the window for doing so was closing. He was losing bits of his strength every day. Luckily, his cancer had been better than most as far as the level of pain was concerned. The drugs helped, but the clock was ticking faster than usual. Better get this done soon, or I won’t be able to, he told himself.

Finally, on one particularly gray day in April, he woke up with a feeling of real urgency about tackling the job while he still could. Mornings had become a barometer to him for measuring his decline. It was as if the cancer was nurtured by sleep, because he never felt worse than in those first few moments climbing from bed. In fact, the last few mornings he’d experienced extreme nausea and more aches in his joints than ever before. One morning, I just won’t be able to get up at all, he reflected. I’ll be bedridden and that will be that. You can’t move, you can’t do anything.

“So okay, let’s do it now! Leave nothing for anyone to clean out,” muttered Philip moving gingerly as he put on his robe. This isn’t going to be fun, but it has to be done. Embarrassing to leave such a disaster behind. What’ll they think of me when they clear out the place and find my cave of chaos? That sums it up, chuckled Philip, amused by his apt description. It is a cave of chaos.

By midmorning, he had made a dent in the closet’s helter-skelter contents. “We’re getting there, buddy,” he told himself encouragingly while feeling the need to rest. Why’d you let this thing go for so long? You’re not a lazy guy. Not even a slob, except when it comes to your damn closet, he thought, stretching out on the couch and quickly dozing off. When he woke up two hours later, he could not bring himself to resume the chore. Tomorrow . . . I’ll get back to it then. Made some good headway today. Got five bags of stuff for the Vets. Probably end up with 10 or 15, the way it’s going.

The next morning Philip dragged himself from bed and began the job anew. This time he didn’t stop until the only thing that remained were stacks of t-shirts, undershorts, and socks––including 31 of the latter that had no match. How does that happen? Where do they go? he pondered, catching his breath. Most of the stuff he judged to be acceptable for the giveaway bags but wondered if it was appropriate to donate underpants. Sure, as long as they look clean. Why not? The needy and homeless need underwear, too, he reasoned.

Philip inspected each pair of jockey shorts carefully, disposing of those he felt too worn or discolored to put in the donation bags. What remained were a dozen or so pairs of tidy-whities that he could not decide whether they were fit enough to give away. They seem fine. Look . . . a barely visible spot on this one. You really have to look closely. They’re really like new. It’s a shame to throw them out when someone could use them.

Unable to make a decision and exhausted from his labor, Philip went straight to bed. He felt worse than ever, and found he was having some difficulty breathing. Despite this he fell into a deep sleep, and in his troubled dream, he was back in his closet and agonizing over what to do about his remaining underpants.

When he awoke shortly before dawn, he realized he needed to get to the hospital. He dialed his sister’s number and she and her husband arrived at his house within the hour and took him directly to the emergency room. He was quickly admitted and over the next two days his condition rapidly deteriorated. One week shy of his 54^th birthday, Philip passed away.

He had appointed his sister the executor of his estate, so it fell to her to empty out his house before putting it on the market. A week after her brother’s funeral, she and her husband spent the day at Philip’s house contemplating what to do with its contents.

“Check Philip’s bedroom closet, Mark, while I clean out the refrigerator and cupboards.”

“Okay, Bev. He sure liked clutter.”

“Well, you know Philip. He was kind of a hoarder.”

“That’s an understatement.”

A few minutes later, Philip’s brother-in-law returned to the kitchen.

“Would you believe your brother emptied out his closet? There’s a bunch of trash bags in the bedroom that he filled with his clothes and stuff. Interesting that he go through the trouble of doing that considering the rest of this place.”

“You’re kidding. I wonder why he did that?”

“Here, this was on the bed with your name on it,” said Mark, handing his wife a carefully wrapped package.

“What’s this?”

“Open it. Must have left you a present.”

When Philip’s sister opened the package, she was confounded by its contents.

“His underpants?”

“Look, there’s a note. What does it say?” asked Mark.

“It says, ‘Sis, I didn’t know what to do with these, Philip.’

“Huh?”

“Oh, Lord! He left me his dirty laundry.”

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Michael C. Keith teaches college and writes stories. www.michaelckeith.com