It isn’t easy to follow someone else’s will. If no specific requests are outlined, you find yourself playing a complicated version of WWJD, when you’ve hardly skipped three steps, much less walked a mile in Jesus’s velcro fastened tennis shoes. You can surmise intent by how the person lives, types of hobbies, and things that move them, but it’s all second hand guessing. Maybe that’s what makes death so difficult, that unmistakable realization when we become aware we never bothered to really know the person in the first place.

After a premature wake which included Mexican food and two pitchers of Texas margaritas, we embarked on a group field trip to shop for a proper suit for my FIL. Most of his dress clothes had been been donated either to charity or the local landfill. I don’t understand this obsession of dressing loved ones in their Sunday best before being lovingly preserved and sealed in fancy casket designed for comfort. As the departed, I wouldn’t feel comforted dissolving into eternity knowing my loved ones overspent on a brief ceremony which did nothing to improve my standing in the universe, but this isn’t really about me or my intent.

At his most vibrant, my FIL is a threadbare flannel shirt kind of guy with an offset baseball cap, tilted WWII style. He splits the elastic in his socks because he doesn’t like the way it makes his ankles itch. His pants may or may not be zipped. No one is likely to accuse him of vanity in any measure.

My MIL is the polar opposite. She possesses the style gene that is synonymous with the blue haired ladies who lunch with cloth napkins, play bridge together, and bring seasoned waitresses to tears. Her signature calling card is the color red. Red is the answer to all that ails. Consequently, she dresses in red, has a diner-style red formica table, and compliments everyone who wears her color du jour.

It seemed odd my husband and his brothers settled upon an okay-sport coat, paired with an un-imaginitive pastel green shirt, conservative (a.k.a. boring as hell) tie, and shit brown dress pants. My cool SIL and I were sorely disappointed as the attire succeeded in underselling the vibrance my FIL exuded during the prime of his life. We protested in favor of a red tie on behalf of our MIL, but the brothers ignored us in favor of the opinion of a pushy yet sexually repressed sales representative.

Not to be unduly silenced, we opted for a subtle display of rebellion and purchased a lacy red thong to place in his coat pocket, for a reminder of the soul mate he left behind. We were pleased with ourselves, having deposited
a naughty memento without publicly flashing the inner conservative of all their sons. And the plan was going swimmingly until………………some fucking asshole stole the suit with all its trimmings from the hospital closet of a dying man. Nice. I just hope the asshole needed it more.

SInce the family was dead set against baring him in flannel or in the nude, we embarked on a second trip, for a second suit, for what would be a first death. This time a committee wasn’t necessary, or maybe it simply wasn’t available. I joined my husband to shop for clothing items I know nothing about. Lucky guy!

We found a sport coat and pants, which better reflected the personality of the wearer. Debonaire, but not too serious, dressy, but nor uncharacteristic. And the tie, was a reflection of the love of his life as it should have been. Red with white, grey, and black circles in equal measure, making the lacy panties unnecessary.

*******
Its finally over. The waiting, that is. The rest. Well, the rest leaves much to be desired, Too many people, too much raw emotion, and too much animosity to subdue, and too many wasted days stripped from my fingers . My head may explode before this is over, but that wouldn’t be the first time.