Today, I bought clothes to wear to my brother’s memorial service. Squeezing into the cute knit dress is a masquerade of sorts. Special undergarments are involved. Everyone will be spared the embarrassment of my visible muffin-top.
George wasn’t big on ceremony. He told my sister, “Have a party if you want to. I don’t care. I won’t be there.”
I’ll wear the new dress, but I want to wear old jeans. I want to sit in a lawn chair under a pine tree. Talk to George. Or not talk. Just be there. With him.