When my son died I became an adult. I discovered this when I decided to purge my closet for the fall.
Last year was the year I wore yoga pants, quite literally, every day, like a uniform. The same pair of black yoga pants and the same blue shirt. It was all I could manage. It was the very best I could do.
In the mornings before work, I would stare at my closet, lost and overwhelmed. Deciding what to wear made me so angry. “Don’t you get it?” I wanted to shout to the world…”My son died. Can’t I at least wear comfortable clothes??”. But the world is uninterested in what is fair and what is just.
Going through my closet this year seemed simple enough, a task I could manage. Decide what to keep, donate the rest. Except once I started, I couldn’t stop. My clothes were so innocent. Flowing skirts and pretty flower patterns. Sundresses that I loved so much. Bright colors and feminine ruffles, pastels and ribbons and ballet flats. All being tossed in the donation pile.
I lived in this little world where I thought for sure that because I had gone to school and earned a few letters after my name and I was responsible and paid my bills that I was a grown up. I thought that because Billy was doing well and moving on to becoming his own version of a grown up that I was somehow earning my grown up status every day. A bona fide functioning Grown-up with a capital G. I thought the days of easy street were on their way. I had no idea what I was in for.
This loss has aged my soul.
And there’s no turning back and no denying it. I’ve lost my taste for flowers on my clothes.