This morning, I came downstairs dressed for my Uncle’s funeral.
I’d assembled a cozy sweater and blazer and a tie that my parents had given me some years back. It wasn’t the usual black suit, but as I’ve said, my Uncle wasn’t a black suit sort of guy.
That, and I knew it would be a long day. I dressed for comfort. Not comfortable, per say, but comforting.
My father was dressed, already, in a look brilliantly executed, as if from the pages of a classy Brooks Brothers catalog. Structured and calm and beautifully put together.
It was one of the longest days in human history. We both cried many times. But as our respective styles suggested, I was, indeed, comforted.
And my father was classy and beautifully put together.