Dressing the Dead

"Will you help me?" the lady asked.

"Sure," I said as I walked over to her.

"I don't guess you carry any of these socks in a single pair?"

"No ma'am," I responded.

"Oh, okay.  I guess I'll just get these and give the other two pair away.  I'm ready, now."

The lady put a couple of packages of underclothes on the counter, along with a pair of socks, jeans, a belt and a button-up blue shirt.  As I was scanning her merchandise, she asked me if I'd separate the briefs, undershirt and socks and put them in a separate bag.  As I started to do so, she stopped me and said she only needed one item from each package.  That was a bit of a strange request and I guess she recognized my slight confusion on my face, most likely due to my uncontrollable eyebrows.

"I only need one shirt, one pair of socks and one pair of underwear.  They're for my son.  I'm burying him in these."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly.  She looked at me through her oval glasses and nodded, a slight smile on her face to show recognition of my condolence.

"I don't even know what size he was.  I just hope this works.  If not, I guess the people at the funeral home can make it work." 

She was an older lady, the skin along her jaw slacked and the usual lines and wrinkles that come with age were present on her face.  Her hair was salt and pepper, the gray wiry and coarse compared to the otherwise smooth texture that was pulled back into a loose bun.

"He would have been fifty in three weeks," she added.  I just shook my head and gave her a look of sympathy.  What else could I say?  There's nothing I could have said, especially not knowing the circumstances and not knowing her well enough to offer any kind of comfort without stepping over some boundary of intimacy between two strangers.  There are things you just don't blurt out to someone you don't know, some things you keep to yourself and some details you don't dare attempt to extract from people you don't know. 

I felt bad for this lady, having to bury her son, something a parent shouldn't have to do, no matter how old they or the child gets.  Even at her age, I could see the grief resting in her features.  I was surprised at how it surprised me, as if the older you get, the less you care.  I've heard it a million times that your children will always be your babies no matter how old they get and this lady showed me the truth in that by the way she leaned on the counter and clutched her chest.  I was half-worried that she might pass out or have a heart attack right there in front of me but she kept herself together pretty well.

I took out a second bag and took out one shirt from the package of shirts, one pair of underwear from the package of underwear and one pair of socks from the package of three.  I then put them in one bag and the remains in another.  She then asked me to place the shirt, belt and jeans in the bag with the single pair of underclothes.  As I was doing so, she said, "He was never a the 'suit-and-tie-type.'"  I prepared a dead man's final wardrobe, touched the underwear that would go around his dead waist, touched the shirt that would go around his dead torso, touched the socks that would go around his dead feet.  It was almost creepy but just mostly sad.  This was going to be the last thing he'd ever wear and I was seeing and touching it.  And it felt like I was taking some small part in sending him off, however odd that might sound.  After the transaction was over, the lady left with her two bags, one filled with her dead son's clothes and another with the remaining items that she would have to find something to do with at some point.  That would probably come much later, after the dressing, after the funeral, after the tears.

I'd say at least about once every week or two I'll have a man or group of men or a man and his sons come in looking for a suit to wear to a funeral.  It's always a stressful situation for me because the customers are usually a little on edge over the shock and sadness of someone close to them dying, which makes my anxiety skyrocket because I don't know if we are ever going to have what they need.  Because we are one of the only places locally that sells suits, and a limited selection at that, we are kind of the last resort, so when we don't have what they are looking for, it only causes their heated emotions to boil over.

I still remember an incident from six years ago when I first worked at the retail store.  A man came in looking for a suit and shirt and tie and he absolutely freaked out on me for some reason that I can't remember now.  The details have slipped away over time but some things I still recall, like his scraggly beard and polyester striped golf shirt.  I remember him ruining my night as well.  He actually came in the next day and apologized, explaining that he had lost his father and was grief-stricken.  I thought it was pretty decent of him to come back and do that and it made me feel a bit better.  Fortunately, I haven't had any more situations like that and so far, everyone's been able to get by with something without blowing up at me.

It's kind of funny how you just can't skirt around death.  It's everywhere and as soon as you try to go out of your way to avoid it, it comes back and makes itself known to you all over again.  You can't even get a reprieve in a retail clothing store. It comes in the form of formal attire with black slacks and saline in the eyes.  And it reminds me of my own expiration, how I'm dead to so many things these days.  I thought I had come to terms with it and tried to move forward, had almost forgotten about it entirely but now I'm brought back to bereavement. 

Is it possible to shake death?  Will I ever feel alive or should I just succumb to the swelling black hole in my heart?  What will my mother bury me in when this body full of bugs and bitterness finally gives out?  And will I even care?  Considering where I might end up, it might be the biggest of my worries, or by far the least...