The Black Skirt

I took the black skirt out of the closet and chose a white sweater to wear with it.  It looked like I could have been going to a job at a restaurant, but I wasn’t.  Today is Jeff’s funeral.

I didn’t want to wear black today, not today.  It was a symbol that I accepted the loss.  I didn’t want to believe that he was truly gone.  As I put on the skirt, I thought of all the other times I had worn it to parties, to work, to events, paired with a shimmering top or a simple t-shirt.  I wore this skirt in happiness and expectation.  Now it was paired with grief, the kind that lingers and transforms into a deep hurt for all who knew him.  I felt the blackness of sorrow for his other friends, his children and his parents.

Zipping up the skirt, I knew that I had to grab my black shoes before leaving.  My everyday shoes,  that I never thought much about.  They are comfortable and dependable.  I’ll be standing for the service, standing outside the church, inside the church, whispering “I’m sorry” a hundred times, wishing we didn’t have to be here.  Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, I watch the mourners, sleep deprived and aching to go back in time; to see him one more time.

After services, I get back home to remove the skirt and put on some jeans.  I will wear this skirt again, but hopefully not to say goodbye to a friend.

Author: Jo Toale