She has his jeans

I will be perfectly honest and say, there is something that I never understood until I was facing it.

There have been countless scenes in movies, TV shows, and accounts from “real” people regarding the agony of dealing with a loved one’s clothes after they have died. I never understood this. It’s not that I didn’t feel empathy. I just literally didn’t understand. How could I?

So, now, I have those clothes. They matter to me, still, twenty-one months later. They are all in the closet. The main closet. They have not been pushed aside or moved to a guest room. They have not been donated to someone who needs them. I see them every day. Hank notices them too. Sometimes I gravitate to a shirt. Touch it. Smell it. Let myself travel to a memory of it. But, mostly, they are just there.

These are the clothes that cloaked Tim. These clothes were an expression of Tim to the outside world. These pieces of fabric have stories – of when they were purchased, of a moment when he wore it, or of me folding it into a suitcase for a trip.

Although he spent most days in scrubs for so many years, Tim really took pride in the way he dressed, and he really enjoyed shopping for clothes.  In the years that we were together, he went through different phases – the classic Banana Republic Jeans and Merino wool sweater always with a black t-shirt underneath; the California casual board shorts with colorful button-down shirts and Olukai or Sanuk slip-ons; and the Under Armour golf shirt and shorts. There was also the sports coat phase. During that period, he insisted on wearing one every time we got on a plane. The last few years, outside of summer, Tim didn’t go anywhere without his Kuhl black alpaca zip jacket. He had three of them because the two times I bought him a new one, he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the previous.

And as the story goes, the first thing I noticed about Tim when we were introduced, were his shoes. Smart, classic black leather Kenneth Cole loafers.

There is one exception regarding the current state of Tim’s clothes. I gave his jeans to his daughter (my bonus daughter), Leyla. She has his jeans. I love saying that. It is the most perfect pun.

Leyla entered her senior year of college a few months after she lost her Dad. I visited Leyla on campus during that first semester. She was already starting to plan for her senior project. As a textile (fashion) major, this would be a three-dimensional project, one that would be displayed in the gallery during the final phase of her Senior year. Leyla had given me a campus tour, and we sat for a while in her lab room where she had her own creative space. She shared her vision board for her project which included a picture of our home in Davidson. Her theme was Nostalgia. And denim was a textile she had been working with a lot.

• 

• 

As we chatted about her work and her Dad, the thought came to me. I asked Leyla if she would ever want any of her Dad’s clothes to use in her work. So there it was – Leyla decided she would use her Dad’s jeans in her senior project. The outcome was a powerful tapestry that told a story about her life with her Dad.

• 

• 

• 

The rest of Tim’s clothes – where will they end up? I understand all of the options. Donation, personalized quilt, passing onto other family. I will figure it out. I just don’t know when.

And let me admit something else. There is still a tiny amount of water left in Tim’s water bottle. The one that was next to his side of the bed, the day he went into the hospital. His dirty clothes are still in the hamper. And the socks he removed from his feet before his last night in our bed, remained on the floor, exactly where he laid them, until I had no choice but to pick them up. That was the day that I moved. One year and 16 days later, the socks were still on the floor.