The box
Friday, February 18, 2011 at 6:00AM This post was written as part of the Red Dress Club--a writing club created by some very talented ladies. This weeks excersise was to write about finding a forgotton peice of clothing and why that article of clothing holds value to you.
The last box, brown, labeled “Master B.R.” taunting me to open it and hang its contents despite my exhaustion. The clock read sometime close to midnight and the only sound permeating the house are my husband's snores.
I pried the tape off, hearing that satisfying "rip". I peer inside at the clothes, sigh and gather my hangers from the closet. I hang a shirt, then some pants, a sweater; it's then that I notice a black and white pattern near the bottom.
Reaching my hand into the box, my fingertips touch against soft silk. I work the fabric back and forth between my fingers and instantly, my emotions shift. I pull my hand back fast as I soothe my imaginary burns. Tears sting against the corner of my eyes.
Slowly, my hand finds it's way back to the box. Once again I allow my fingers to rub the fabric together. I lift it carefully out of its storage bin and hold it up in the air. The jagged, striking random white stripes lay against the shirt’s black background creating a perfect combination of classic and modern. I look from its scoop neck down to its generous midsection which was perfect for concealing my 8-week old secret—a baby, his grandson-the one he never got the chance to meet.
I remember buying the shirt in Macy’s, in a daze, staring blankly at the black and white pattern attempting to discern it’s appropriateness at a funeral and eventually coming to the conclusion that neither he nor I would care about the norms. I carelessly tossed it on the counter to pay, not understanding the sentiment it would soon hold.
Now, I press the silkiness to my cheek wondering if tears still stain it, as I’ve never found the strength to wash it. I inhale, wishing I could still smell the fresh rain that sprinkled the burial ground. I wondered if fragments of the earth we carefully scooped on top of the casket, symbolizing our part in laying him to rest and bringing him some much needed peace are still caught between the threads.
I sit on my bed, finally allowing my tears to flow to my cheeks. This one piece of fabric brings floods of memories of his last months on earth. The seemingly endless suffering as his brain slowly shut down no longer able to handle the strain of stroke after stroke. A genius should not have to lose his mind in the end; it’s a cruel way to go.
I continue to stare at the shirt crumpled on my lap and know that it’s time. Through the tears I walk to our laundry room. Using the gentlest cycle I watch it swirl through the bubbles of soap.
I sit on the cold tile floor hoping the gentle cycle will wash away the pain so I can celebrate my dad’s life through the shirt instead of his mourn his death. Maybe this shirt can serve as a reminder of all the good, the boldness and softness that made him special— that made him, an amazing human being.
Reader Comments (13)
Beautifully written, Memories are so powerful - even with something so simple as a blouse.
Thank you for sharing.
What a beautifully written post. The details in your description brought me into the room with you. I loved the part about the tears and soil being a part of the blouse. Tangible memories.
I pull my hand back fast as I soothe my imaginary burns.
This says it all. Items with great meaning hold power. You capture the moment of this blouse with such skill and compassion.
I'm so sorry about the passing of your father.
This is painful to relive. I lost my father as well, just after the birth of my first son. You'll keep your fond memories alive with you, even if you're not wearing the shirt...
I liked, "I carelessly tossed it on the counter to pay, not understanding the sentiment that it would soon hold."
Isn't that the truth? All of these memories in the making are often insignificant to us while they're being made.
I enjoyed this...thanks for sharing!
I love that she is able to wash the shirt again with the intent of wearing it again and remembering her father, that took a lot of strength I think. And I think that our clothes become more than just clothes once we start wearing them, this post shows this well.
I lost my dad before I could form a memory of him.
I don't know which is worse...losing a father before or after you've had time to build a world around him.
I love that you have a shirt to help you remember and heal.
In reading you post and others like it I have really begun to understand fully for the first time how our clothes bring forth memories for us. Your story is beautiful. One concrit for memoir writing. It is hard, but sometimes it is helpful to draft sentences to avoid repititous "I" usage. It didn't harm the impact or the beauty of your story at all. It's just a memoir workshop tip "I" picked up along the way. Nice job.
Such a sad memory but hopefully the shirt will eventually help you heal. This is a lovely tribute to your grandfather.
You seem to switch tenses a bit near the beginning but other than that it's lovely
Visiting from RDC
I, too, lost my father to stroke. My grandfather, too. It's a horrible, horrible thing. I was pregnant with my first baby when my grandfather died. My father never met my daughter, and died before I was even pregnant with my third.
I am so sad for your loss. I hope that shirt did provide you with some gentleness.
Thank you to everyone for your kind words and feedback. It is amazing the memories and emotions that come to you through a simple item of clothing. I can't wait to finish everyone's posts for this week.
I've definitely been there. I didn't want to wash something because of the sentiment attached to it. Good job of conveying emotion.
What a wonderful piece. Isn't amazing the sentiment that can be behind one random piece of clothing?