December 23, 2019 – The old flannel shirt

         Years ago, a college classmate wasn’t in her designated seat in World History class, the next seat to the right beside me on the front row.   The Professor motioned to me after class. 

         “Vickie’s mother died, she went to attend to things in NYC. I imagine you will want to share your class notes with her.”

         “When did-” he cut me off.

         “I got the call this morning.”

         When my friend Vickie came back into town, we had coffee and chatted.  Her mother had dropped dead right on the street walking to or from her apartment.  The NYC morgue phoned her.  I was at a loss for words imagining the scene, the chain of events. Sometimes silence is better in these situations.

         Next, she said something I will never forget.

         “I let myself into her apartment and hanging on the back of the kitchen chair was her sweater, I put it on.”

         Just that simple sentence, has stuck with me all these years.  I could picture her mother’s kitchen and I’d never even been there.

         She had to deal with it all, the funeral, the apartment – all by herself. Having not experienced what she had just experienced, alone, I kept silent and merely nodded trying to comprehend her loss.

         But, it was an understanding I never fully realized until it was my turn.

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         It is chilly in this house when we don’t have full sun.  The morning sun and afternoon sun glint into this house and warm it up a bit. So, when it is overcast and rainy, I reach for something to take off the chill.

         The last time I visited both of my parents, my Dad and I worked in his gardens.  We pulled up the overgrown iris rhizomes in the front garden around the boulder and replanted the best ones.  I boxed some iris up and shipped them home to my garden.  Dad did a lot more supervising and directing than any real garden work that day; I ended up with the dirty hands, his stayed pristine.  He was 88 at the time, and unknown to me then, it would be the last time we did anything together as he died the next June.

         It was cool that day and Dad retrieved a grey plaid flannel shirt from his closet for me as he noticed I stopped a few times and rubbed my arms to warm them.

         “You can have it, doesn’t fit me anymore,” he said.

         I pulled on the well-worn flannel shirt, soft from years of washing. It was western style with snap front buttons and double breast pockets.  As I snapped the buttons, it instantly cured my chill.  

         It has been since 2010 since Daddy died, and his grey plaid flannel shirt is still in my closet, up front so that I can snatch it when I catch a chill.

         I snatched it just now and mentally said, as I always mentally say when I pull it off the hanger and pull it on, “Thank you Daddy, it keeps me warm”.  It's like a warm hug from Dad every time.