Today I cried about an overcoat.
I decided it was time to do some spring cleaning, so I began with our closets. Bo’s clothes hang there, most never worn because it’s easier for him to wear warm-up pants and pull-over shirts. There are still dress shirts and belts and slacks and ties in the closet. And shoes and boots and ….
Last year I gave away his tuxedos and suits. Kept one navy blazer, just in case. In case of what? He will never go out again … to dinner … to visit friends … to a concert or movie.
Over the past three or four years, I’ve added different sizes to his closet as he gained or lost weight, so I made piles of the larger sized slacks and tennis shirts, belts, sweaters, some shoes and a pair of snow boots to give to Goodwill.
And then, for some reason, when I got to the coat closet and took out his overcoat, the one that he wore over suits on cold winter evenings, I fell apart.
Jon saw me just standing there … “What’s the matter?”
That’s all I needed, the tears came. “It’s so sad. He’ll never wear it again. We won’t go anywhere together,” I sobbed. “Never.”
The coat — a symbol of my loss.