December 7, 2002 Beautiful suits

One of my closest friend's mom died and I went to the funeral. I don't own very beautiful suits — I have one kind of snazzy number with flashes of sharky-stripes that I wore to my brother's wedding, and then I have a pretty run-down black jacket for everything else. I wanted to show as much respect and love as I felt, and had a pretty bad feeling that I wasn't up to it. Pulling out the old black jacket with it's stained and crimped front I was embarrassed and sad. My girlfriend tried to fix it up, but you can't make a cheap old jacket much else except a little cleaner.

Having short notice, as these things go, I wore the old coat anyway. When I got out of the car at the funeral, it was a very cold morning and there was snow everywhere and the sun was blinding. We walked down the block toward the funeral, and there were people streaming from every direction toward this big old temple. Another old friend from high school came and hugged me, and he looked great in a beautiful wool suit and a big sad face. We talked for a minute, and then he said, "You look good," and kind of opened my suit jacket. I'm sure he overstated the case, but by some trick of light when I looked down, the jacket did look OK, it was somber and serious and somehow in the dazzingly snow-light of morning it didn't look shoddy at all. As we walked in I got the impression of floating above the whole scene and watching us, like we were in a sad and marvelous old painting. Everyone I saw was an old friend, and they all looked really, really good.