When Daddy’s health started to go downhill, he was always cold. So he wore a hooded sweat jacket all the time, even outdoors in the summer. His blood wasn’t circulating like it should have been, so 90 degrees was chilly for him.
It was gray, the jacket. Just a common item that probably came from Wal-Mart. But it kept him warm on hot days.
Clothes smell like people, long after the people are gone.
When Rich died, I didn’t even open the door to the closet for months. Everything smelled like him: saw-dust and cologne. Aramis, I think.
And that special smell that I knew only Rich smelled like.
It was everywhere, but mostly in his clothes.
So in Daddy’s final bout with his failing body, my nephew started wearing Daddy’s old sweat jacket.
It was July, and way too hot to have one on. But Josh just kept wearing it. Smelling it every now and then, keeping it on for months off and on.
Like me, Daddy was the only father that Josh ever knew. He had a different one, biologically, but Daddy was his daddy as much as he was mine. Mama and Daddy raised him since he was about two.
It’s strange the things we do to remember people. Josh has his sweat jacket with the hood, and I have a keyboard. And memories that go back 40 or so years.
I’m glad Josh has his jacket. And I hope he realizes that he also has much more.
He is the heir-apparent to the legacy of a man who got things done and took care of his family, regardless. I won’t be around forever, and I certainly won’t reproduce.
One of these days, maybe he’ll wash that jacket. Maybe he already has. I don’t know.
The important things can never be washed out.
A familiar smell is comforting.
The example of a life well-lived is another thing entirely.
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