The Empty Closet

I don't want to write about The Memory of Running. I don't want to write about The Great Gatsby. I want to write about the empty closet. It used be filled to the brim with clothes, clothes that would cause  hundreds of fights over who could borrow what. I remember how cool I used to feel when I had permission to go into that closet and wear something of hers, knowing my outfit had to be on point because it belonged to my big sister. Every piece of clothing told its own story, from the numerous outfits we would parade around the neighborhood in, looking for out next "photo shoot worthy" spot, to the ratty old clothes we would wear when mom made us play "cinderella" and clean the whole house  for "fun". It was always filled with life, filled with colors, filled with memories. Now whenever I walk by the closet, all I feel is emptiness. Like a shell of what it used to be. While it wouldn't make sense to say the closest was my hero (though it did save me from many bad outfit days), looking back, my big sister always has been. I've always looked up to her from her smart-ass comments that made everyone nearly pee their pants laughing at the dinner table, to her uncontrollable dance moves at all the Uni dances I will never live up to. Maybe looking up to someone doesn't  make them a hero, maybe I just miss her and the second she comes home I will delete this post and think "why did I write this again?" But for now, I'm counting down the days until the closet will be full and again my big sister along with it.