My Black Suit
This afternoon, I am attending the funeral of a friend of my future in-laws. I only met him once, and he was already cancer-ravaged by that point, but GTB and the rest of his family loved him dearly. And, as they say, you don’t attend a funeral for the one who has died–you go to support those they he or she left behind.
In preparation for this funeral, I put on a black suit that last saw the light of day at Matt’s funeral 16 months ago. I was skinnier then. The skirt wasn’t so tight. I’m also wearing the shoes I bought for Joe and Tracey’s wedding. And the pearl earrings I got for being a bridesmaid in Laura’s wedding.
Every piece of clothing feels wrapped in emotion and history. It sounds weird, and probably overly dramatic, I know. But I’m concious of every shred of fabric, the slingbacks that don’t stay up on the back of my ankles, and the little jewels adorning my ears. I can feel them at every moment.
And it feels very grown up. To have clothes that are this old but still classic enough to wear 8 years after I bought them. The kind of clothes you wear to funerals.
If not for the happy memories associated with the pearls and the ill-fitting shoes, I’d really hate this suit.
But then I remember that last time I wore this suit, I was holding my nephew Jack. He had just turned 2 then, and was still little enough to carry around on my hip for long periods of time. I spent most of the post-funeral reception holding onto Jack. Both because it kept distant relatives from asking me if I had kids, and because it kept me from breaking down at the thought of missing Matt. There really is something about having a new life in your arms to remind you that life goes on.
I’m nervous about attending this funeral today. And I realize how selfish that is. And I feel bad about it.
And I kinda hate this suit.