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August 25, 2014
The coat closet in the front hall of our house was almost impossible to close thanks to the bulge of jackets, coats, hooded sweatshirts, and scratchy afghans that one of both of our grandmothers had crocheted over the years. I admired the closet of my mom's best friend, "Aunt" Elaine, in which, as they smoked Kools in the kitchen, I'd seek shelter, among the evenly spaced things she called "wraps", each roosting on its own smooth wooden hanger, unlike the carnage of our closet, which once opened, unleashed a jangle of wire hangers like so many skinny elbows. Or bats.