The Sunday Suits
How strange it felt to wander
through my father’s house
to stop in the bedroom doorway
and see the partially-open closet door,
the suit jackets lined up
five, six, seven of them
and when I walked closer, the pants
in front on the left hand side.
There was no one left
for the stalwart suits,
no one left to select on Sunday morning
wear with quiet aplomb
then hang up on Sunday afternoon.
There is no understanding
of this change in order–
the weekly selection of one,
the slipping on, the warm wearing,
and the comfortable wait
of the others that will now just stare
in straightforward fashion at the narrow wall.
How bemused my father would be to know
that I noticed them, then wish himself
still in a couple when I reached and hugged
his waiting jackets.
—By Michelle Bedard