The Goddess Speaks
The Goddess Speaks
Memories held
in the folds of a shirtIt had been more than five years since the clothes spread before me draped his frame. My husband was wonderful to look at, no matter what he wore. I loved the way Carl's shirts fell against him, whether aloha or dress shirts, surf Ts or tanks.
Much of it was given away after he died. The rest were thrown in a couple of boxes, left in chaos, the same way his sudden death in an accident left my life.
I now faced repacking them in a more respectful manner as I had kept promising myself I would someday.
Our son Taylor, at age 10, isn't too concerned about clothes or style, let alone what his father used to wear. The only requirement for his own wardrobe: baggy. If the sleeves of his T don't touch his elbows, "this shirt's too small," even if one can barely tell he's wearing shorts underneath.
He behaves like any other 10-year-old, yet seems wise and knowing, but perhaps any other mother would think that about her child.
My own father died last summer; and though he saw me through rites of passage such as driving lessons, first date, marriage and the birth of his first grandson, my dad's death seemed too soon.
Facing the death of a loved one is a personal, humbling journey. I observed part of my mother's process of accepting my father's absence as she neatly folded his clothes almost a year later, separating them into piles for giveaway, made ready to tell new stories. The old ones stay in my memory.
My father was a retired Navy chief who always looked handsome, especially in his light brown uniform. My sisters and I would listen for the sound of his motorcycle, anxious to greet him home from duty, and we'd beg for rides around the cul-de-sac. He'd be set for a night of ballroom dancing in his Tori Richards long-sleeve aloha shirts. White V-neck Ts of thin cotton were daily lounging attire.
Insight can come from the most unassuming places, this one printed on a handout calendar: "Dealing with endings gracefully is a sign of maturity, of having learned by experience that endings aren't 'against us,' they are simply a continuing part of life." My mother confronted her share of finalities, and with each piece of clothing she folded, it seemed she was embracing that insight with quiet dignity.
I saved some of Carl's clothes for our son, not to wear but, aside from his skin, as tangible proof of his father's life. I imagine him older, opening the boxes I seal, getting a glimpse of his father's broad chest and matters of taste. In my mind he slowly moves his hand across the fabric before holding each garment high against the light, as I hope he holds whatever memory he has of his father. Even the ones where he is being scolded.
There is no example to mimic, so genetics are what make some mannerisms pleasantly similar to his dad's --the tilt of his smile, the way he moves his hand when he talks, a certain way he sits. Whether sense of values and style is inherited I'll wait and see. For now he counts on me and whatever's on special at Old Navy.
It poured the next morning as he and I sped out the door, late for school. He had already outgrown the slicker I had bought months before. There was, however, a rain jacket spared from storage and I ran back to grab it from my closet. It fit him perfectly sloppy -- trendy, even, for a jacket almost a decade old.
"Where'd you get it?" he asked.
"It was Dad's."
The rain subsided as I drove into the school turnaround, and he dashed out, arms full of books, leaving the jacket behind. I returned with it draped over my shoulders and needed a drink of water before I resumed repacking.
Will he remember his father's smile? The way he spoke? Will he remember waiting up for his dad to come home from the night shift? Carl would swing the door open, kick off his running shoes, whip off his photographer's vest and, tired as he was, say to his son, "Let's play!"
I reminisce as I walk into the kitchen at what seems ages ago and as though it were yesterday.
Our refrigerator door is sprinkled with words of magnetic poetry, some customized with our names, strung into phrases formed at whim.
How long this sentence had been up, I don't know. I spotted it through my glass as I tilted my head back to drink and realized our son remembers what matters.
"TAYLOR/ S / GLAD / DAD / WAS / LOVE / ING"
Ruby Mata-Viti is a Star-Bulletin page designer/writer.
The Goddess Speaks is a column by and about
women, our strengths, weaknesses, quirks and
quandaries. If you have something to say, write it
and send it to features@starbulletin.com.