©2025 Myrna Urmanita. All Rights Reserved.
The neighborhood sat in morning stillness. A sudden groan of metal gears along the chain-driven track broke the silence. A familiar sound to Alan, he crouched beneath the rising garage door as morning light spilled across the concrete, escorting his shadow toward the inner doorway.
“Mom, it’s me. I’m here,” Alan called out. “Do you want me to help you go through Dad’s closet today?”
“Hi, honey. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get to it,” his mother called back from the backyard.
He already knew the answer, but he asked every time.
Alan’s father, Derek, had passed away ten years ago. Still, his closet remained untouched—impeccable, tidy, and organized. Every shirt, suit, pair of pants, and jacket faced the same direction, evenly spaced like dominoes. His shoes, polished and aligned, stood at attention.
Derek was a career soldier. The Army shaped his life, and at home, that discipline carried through. Beds were made tight with military corners. Uniforms were starched and pressed crisp. Everything had its place—especially the closet.
Alan had never really seen it before. What he remembered were the uniforms—freshly ironed, precise—and the t-shirts and sweaters his mother now wore while tending the garden or moving through the house. They were huge on her petite frame, but to her, they fit just right. Wearing them softened the absence, bridged the space between missing Derek and learning to live without him.
“Wow, Mom—I had no idea Dad was so organized,” Alan said.
“I’m right here, Alan. No need to yell,” she replied, now standing behind him.
“Oh—sorry, Mom. I thought you were still outside.”
“Did you find something you want?” she asked, glancing around.
“What size are his shoes? Those look like they’ll fit me,” Alan said, pointing to the neat row below.
“Your dad didn’t cut corners when it came to his feet,” she said with a small smile, lowering herself beside them.
She reached for a pair and handed them to him. “Go ahead—see if they fit.”
Alan sat down and slipped them on.
“I really like these, Mom. I hope they fit,” he said, glancing at her.
A moment later, he stood.
“They fit, Mom—look!” he cried out, turning toward the mirror. “I’m walking in Dad’s shoes.”
His mother let out a soft laugh—something caught between joy and ache—as she watched him try on pair after pair.
In their home, love was quiet. It lived in discipline. In expectation.
When he spoke, his words were few. They froze where they stood—heads bowed, eyes lowered.
Alan had not always understood his father. As the oldest, the expectations had felt heavier, the distance harder to bridge. Standing there, in his father’s shoes, something unspoken settled into place.
His mother watched, her eyes glistened. She had always understood Derek in ways her children could not. She believed in his way of loving—in the lessons he left behind, even when they were hard to receive.
Seeing her son step into those shoes—and hearing him say those words—stirred something deep within her. Their relationship had been complicated. And yet, there he was… grown, carrying something of his father forward.
Before leaving, Alan gathered a few blazers, t-shirts, and belts. In the garage, he claimed his father’s tools and carried them out one by one.
Derek’s closet is still there.
Most of his shoes now sit in Alan’s.
His mother still visits the closet, as though it were a small store. Sometimes she pulls out a sweatshirt, a worn t-shirt, or his favorite Pendleton to wear around the house or out in the yard.
It doesn’t matter if they’re too big—as long as they keep her close to him.
The closet remains organized.
It remains full.
And Alan—
He walks every day. 🌺
Author’s Note
I was cleaning out my closet one day when I found myself thinking about my older brother.
A few months after our father passed, my brothers and I helped our mother sort through his belongings. At one point, my brother wandered into our dad’s closet and tried on his shoes. When he realized they fit, he smiled and said, “Look… they fit. I’m walking in Dad’s shoes.”
Something in that moment stayed with me.
Not because the shoes fit—but because of what it meant. Our father was gone, and yet, somehow, he wasn’t. The way he lived, the values he carried, the quiet lessons he left behind… they were still there.
Whether my brother felt it in that moment didn’t matter. I did.
The Closet is a work of fiction inspired by that memory. It reflects the quiet, often unspoken bond between a father and son—one that continues not only in presence, but in absence… in what is carried forward.
Some things are never really lost.
They find a different way to remain. 🌺
—
Some things, as the path continues. Some footsteps are never lost.