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.