Ritual

When I was a child, every change of season brought with it the family ritual of changing over our clothes. One Saturday, the date of which I can only imagine was determined by some sort of complex mathematical formula, we would head into the attic and haul down the bins and bags of clothes.

Each of us had to go through our dressers and closets and bag up anything that was worn out or just unwearable. Then, last year's clothes came out. Anything questionable had to be tried on. Anything outgrown got passed down the line.

I was the youngest, and therefore the end of the line. Anything I outgrew went to Goodwill. But there was always something slightly out of date to be passed down to me.

It was always kind of fun to rediscover clothes you had forgotten. And sometimes the hand-me-downs were something you actually wanted. But the real winner was always my oldest sister. Her clothes always got to be new. She always got to pick them herself. They always fit.

I hated her at those times.