After my son and daughter left with their families to return up north, I sat in the bedroom that my husband and I had shared for many years. My daughter wanted me to go back with her. Insisted on it. But I said, no.
“This is my home. I don’t want to leave. Not right now. Maybe later,” I told her.
I looked around the room. Wonderful photographs he kept from a recent hobby. A new hairbrush on his chest of drawers. And, in the closet, the handsome wardrobe he took such pride in.
“Call Good Will or some charity. They’ll be glad to take the clothes. It will be appreciated, you can be sure,” my daughter had said.
Alone now in a silence I never before knew, I thought, not so fast. Everyone doesn’t heal in the same way. How do you let a person you love and lived with so long be wrenched away from you, and then hurry to make all traces of him disappear?
I ran my hand down along the sleeve of his favorite blazer. A soft, wool, navy blue with brass buttons. I brought it up to my face.
“How could you leave me?” I asked him.
My friends brought me many kind words.
“Keep busy,” they advised.
I did. I kept busy. Cleaned the house, shopped, cooked, met them for lunch, for movies, etceteras. Yet, in spite of all the going and the busyness, without warning a feeling of such grieving pain would sweep over me. It was during those times that I talked to my husband. Not out loud, of course. Only in my mind.
To some people it might seem strange – a one sided conversation. Yet, it wasn’t like that. And I did not hear voices, either, like a person losing their marbles. Even so, I didn’t mention it to anyone, because that’s what they might think.
How can I describe it? It was like a presence. I felt that what was happening was very precious and I was not going to turn my back on it.
Sitting on the green satin boudoir chair, the closet door open, I found I had a lot to say. Nothing anybody could listen to, because it wasn’t out loud. Private talk. The kind we had when we were alone. That belonged only to us. The same way it is with other couples.
I would reminisce about our early years, when the children were young. Remembering the fun, the joy and also the difficulties we overcame. Some that we didn’t.
Other time I would come to him for advice. I needed a lot of that. Somehow in the quiet, the stillness, there were answers.
In the beginning I cried a lot. But gradually I began to feel my strength returning and a calmness. And like my daughter told me to, I called a charity organization and gave away his beautiful clothes, except the navy blue blazer, his best slacks and the imported shoes he enjoyed wearing.
Several weeks later my daughter flew down to see how I was doing. I guess she wanted to see for herself if I was bearing up okay. Was there anything she could do?
Inspecting around the apartment, she opened the closet door and saw them. The blazer, the slacks and the shoes.
“I thought you gave all daddy’s things away. What are these doing here? Why are you saving them?”
She looked at me with wide-open eyes.
What could I tell her?
“What’s the hurry?” I asked. “They look nice hanging there. Not so empty looking. If they comfort me, what’s the harm?”
My daughter said nothing but hugged me, as her tears started to flow.
When she was leaving she made me promise to give away those clothes, too. I said I would, just to make her feel better. But I didn’t. Not right away.
It was when I began to know, that in some way, he was with me whenever I wished it, that I then called the charity. It was time. But I had done it my way.
Florence Liberfarb writes poetry, short stories and plays. You may freely republish this story for non-commercial use provided you follow the Publisher Guidelines and provide a hyperlink (electronic media) to the Wordly Web Site. You may not alter the copyright notice or edit the content of this story. Please notify the author of your intent to republish. Commercial use of this story requires written permission and payment of a royalty.
The Navy Blue Blazer by Florence Liberfarb
Copyright © 2005-2007 All Rights reserved
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Poems, Stories, and Plays byFlorence Liberfarb
