Dear Underwear Drawer,

You and I have been together for a long time.

I cannot remember a time in my life when you were not part of my daily routine. Granted, you've been housed in different dressers, but Underwear Drawer (UD), the song has always remained the same.

Who in the name of Zeus keeps a pair of underwear for so long, its origin is long forgotten? This chick, I guess, but you knew that. After all, you're home to the Relic section, which is adjacent to the Current section (populated by nearly identical black cotton bikinis). The Other section contains underwear I no longer understand. I mostly regard these unmentionables as inscrutable for no reason other than they seem to need more fabric to be categorized as underwear.

There was a time in my life when this was not the case, but … yeah, yeah, yeah … I just don't need to prove anything anymore, UD. A woman of my advanced age lives happily and without apology in the land of Full Coverage.

Behind the unfortunate collection of brassieres, which probably deserve their own correspondence (case in point: to that one demi I tossed when the underwire snapped in two, I’d say, I miss you and I wish you were here; you were one great brassiere), sits a folded stack of jewelry polishing cloths, at least one of which is so dirty, it surely is no longer useful for anything. Yet I keep it.

Why?

Because it came from that place in Truckee, CA, where Eric and I bought the inlaid cuff bracelet. We were on our honeymoon, which we took a full year after our nuptials. In 1993, we thought a $300 jewelry purchase was the most extravagant thing in the world. Now that bracelet is worth a million and then some.

I’ve moved the mysterious jewelry boxes from one underwear drawer to the next and the next. At least I think I have. Frankly, UD, the current version (you) has been in place for so long I can't remember.

The little cards came from my Great Gram Doubler. She fashioned them from the shells she'd collect every year when her and Gramp would travel to Florida for a respite from the hard Ohio winters and tough farming life.

I wonder how old the bracelet and ceramic doll in the gold box are. I have no idea, UD, but they’ve been in you forever. Did they come from Gram O'Brien? I think so. Nestling them amid those dried greens is exactly something Gram OB would do. I don’t know why I’ve saved these so long, but at this point, the ceramic girl is here to stay.

When is a coiled pipe cleaner more than a coiled pipe cleaner?

I'll bet you've been curious for years. The Goat presented that box to me on a balmy Autumn night in one of the finest restaurants in the city. Then he fumbled with some words about a pipe cleaner ring before pulling another little box from his coat pocket and asking me to marry him.

That blue scroll is a love letter the Goat purchased from a service in 1991. He handed it to me alongside apologies for not being able to pen one himself. For the life of me, UD, I cannot bear to slip off the ribbon and read it.

He gave me the racy sachets a few years after I wore that lacy pair of black undies (tucked in your Relic section) and said, “I do.” When I opened those sachets that Christmas, I laughed and laughed. I knew I'd picked the right guy. There was a third in the set. Where the devil is it now? Maybe buried in the depths of one of your siblings. Their lovely lavender scent has long since dissipated.

The tangle of trinkets are an apt memento of my failed attempt at being a Brownie fiftysome years ago. As for the ivory roses, my mom gifted those earrings to me shortly after I got my ears pierced as a tween. I thought they were the most beautiful objects I'd ever seen and I cannot remember ever removing them from the box to wear for fear of losing one.

That printout dated 3/12/99 is actually a band formerly attached my daughter's tiny wrist on that date during an emergency she endured at just two years old. The tarnished oval metal bracelet belonged to my mom when she was a tot. I think Gram Soos gave me that oh-so-fine chain.

That unsigned note, my dear UD, was written by my mother-in-law.

"I treasured this for 35 years—you treasure it for 35+," wrote Pat in reference to an old fashion beaded baby ID bracelet, the kind they affixed to a newborn's wrist in the hospital upon entrance into the world. In this case, that would have been the Goat's wrist. Pat gave it to me the day I married her son. We lost her in 2007.

Gram and Gramp OB, circa 1979, in their yukatas.

The coiled twill band is an obi sash from a blue and white yukata, a gift from my Gram and Gramp O'Brien upon their return from an elaborate trip to Japan. All the O'Briens got one that year (1979?). We wore them for our big annual Thanksgiving dinner, which was a tradition I thought would never fade. Until it did. One by one, all the O’Briens died or became estranged and now there is only Mom, Lisa, and me.

And the obi sash.

Thanks for keeping it all safe. I’ll see you tomorrow, my friend.

Love, Erin

ps: This post is a collection of my aspirations, one of which includes your would-be contents.

pps: That “Full Coverage” pic of Yours Truly linked above is from October, 2006. Good LORD.

ppps: I still have my yukata. It’s in the drawer next to you, along with a slew of its own stories.

pppps: Thanks for keeping all the secrets, UD, so many secrets.

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