I looked at my desk calendar this morning, and the date was February 16th. Time slips away quickly. I have a four-legged companion keeping my lap warm after a lengthy absence. The human in me is inclined to get all sentimental and say she loves me and missed me, but the pragmatist in me knows the house is cold and the cat is clearly stoned from the zen tea bag wrapper I gave her earlier.

How to measure the passage of time? It seems like three months have dissolved before my very eyes, but I know that isn’t entirely true. I hiked a few times and I completed a few drawings, but oddly I still feel like a guest in my own home.

I could measure the passage of time, by the changing market values, but that isn’t enlightening insomuch as it is utterly disgusting. I could measure time by the amount of cat hair on my pants but there is always cat hair, so that isn’t satisfactory unless I produce a bald house pet. I can measure the passage of time by the number of these, I’ve hand stitched, but it only accurately depicts the past week. The body count was eleven.

Last week, my husband expressed concern over all the stress possibly sending someone over the edge. I wondered if he intended it as a barb directed at me. I don’t function as well as I should around crowds, and fervent crowds are the absolute worst. Too much raw emotion.

I worked to keep perceived slights to myself and ignore emotionally driven irrationality. Although, it isn’t becoming of one’s character to gloat about a behavior that is expected in polite company, I am gloating now. I didn’t lose my shit and create a scene, in spite of residing in the land o’ plenty. The best part was my husband didn’t seem to notice the tension between his SIL (he can claim her. I choose not to) was so thick and icy you couldn’t fracture it with a snow shovel.

I suspect someone left with their feelings hurt, though I know not who.

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.