For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she lied. They were standing in her driveway. “He wasn’t always like this, you know.” She pointed to the two boxes situated next to her rolling outdoor trash container filled with stemware, good china and two vases. “The stemware was a wedding gift.”

“I don’t know how you do it Jeanne. It seems like he wants to throw everything away, especially the things you like, or even love, the most.” Her neighbor, a woman hobbled by osteoarthritis, was eying the hand blown glass vase with interest.

Jeanne ran her hands through her thinning gray hair. She was at a loss for words. Her husband Pierce was, in fact, always a minimalist. The first time she went to his apartment, six weeks to the day after they met, she was shocked to discover that his spacious studio was an experience in oneness unlike anything she had ever seen. The man had one plate, one set of silverware and two glasses, in case he said, one broke. He had a portable television set, a recliner and a folding dinner tray in his living room that doubled as an end table.

Pierce noticed the concern on her face that day and shrugged. He took her hand and walked her to his one closet which held two pairs of slacks, four shirts and brown Florsheim loafers. “I’m a minimalist,” he said.

Jeanne was stunned. She really liked Pierce. She was already thinking of him as a promising candidate for marriage. She still lived with her parents. Her closet was stuffed with clothing and she had an antique French armoire jam-packed with summer wear. “Do you think a minimalist and a clothes horse can co-exist?”

Pierce had smiled and nodded, “I think we’re going to find out.”

They married six months later. It was a good marriage. They raised two children and owned a spacious home. There were sporadic clashes over Jeanne’s need (as Pierce described it) for things, but Jeanne held her own. Occasionally she let Pierce empty the garage of items he decided were unnecessary. She bit her tongue when he discarded the juicer she gave him for Christmas only three months before he tossed it. She did that a lot. After all, aside from his affliction (as she came to see it) he was a kind man. 

Jeanne was not above grazing garage sales either, buying things on the cheap and strategically placing them in the garage. That way she could feed Pierce’s need to declutter without actually giving up something she valued. Every marriage has its compromises.     

Lately though, especially since they finally decided to downsize, Pierce had become almost maniacal about discarding their possessions, including furniture. It seemed like he wouldn’t be satisfied until their new home matched the apartment he had when they were dating.    

“Is he not well?” Jeanne's neighbor asked. “I’m wondering if he has a hoarding disorder in reverse.” The woman was still eying the vase.

That was exactly how Jeanne thought of it lately, compulsive decluttering. Of course, there wasn’t an official diagnosis for that. Her husband often ignored her feelings, insisting they discard things that she had an emotional attachment to, like the crib the kids used. The man could not be moved, even by her tears, to keep something he deemed unnecessary. There wasn’t a diagnosis for that either.

“Take that vase if you want it,” she said. “Maybe I can visit it once in a while.”