My Dad died three and half years ago at 88 and the speed with which my Mother emptied the closets was breathtaking. This is a widow's prerogative and no one would question how they choose to grieve and begin to live their lives without a partner. But by the time I looked up from my own grief, the personal trappings of his life were mostly dispersed.
I have held onto four things. First, a blue plaid Brooks Brothers shirt that I gave him to brighten his wardrobe and pamper him; he would have never spent this much on a shirt, as he tirelessly declared about so many things. I wear it now rarely and usually to family gatherings where no one seems to recognize it as his. It's a reminder of our different frames in all senses.
Second, is a too narrow, shamrock covered tie, a St. Patrick's Day staple of his when it was a proud declaration of his heritage. Being Irish, for him and me, entails at its core a sharp awareness of the blessings that illuminate a troubled world. My family finds this perplexing enough. I do not need to wear the tie to remind them.
Then there's his Cross pen which he was never without. "Anyone have a pen?" He always had this one. The first appeared in the late 60's when they were the ne plus ultra of corporate gifts. A stream arrived, bearing logos and inscriptions; I lost every one he gave me until my Mother gave me this one of his after his death. After a frantic few days when I thought I had misplaced it, this one rarely leaves my bureau. When I hold it, I feel connected to him. It's totemic.
And finally there's this music. I introduced him to Louis Jordan when I was in my thirties and our relationship had been repaired. While Jordan's music was from his generation, it was unknown to him. He loved it as much as I did. I heard the roots of rock and roll taking shape and he heard the romp of the big bands.
To hear it now is to see his face beaming, in thrall of its syncopated rhythm and sly wordplay. "Take me right back to the track, Jack."
