Lesson 6: Rewrite an old scene that you cherish.

The Eighth Stage of Grief!

I'm not sure why I secretly snapped this picture with my cell phone.

Or why I printed it for posterity.

My three, teen-age nephews, faces as grim as their dingy white sport socks, no shoes, tattered gym shorts, and three ill-fitting sport coats, all standing in Mother's kitchen.

Date stamped February 4th.

Perhaps one day the preposterous irony of this picture would be a story told without blubbering all over my keyboard?
Perhaps today is the day?
Dad had been gone less than 24 hours when we noticed Mom's new role as boss was exhausting her. Too much to do. And when we realized that sister number three, Sylvia's, sons were without proper pallbearer attire I suggested,
"Mom, why don't you take a nap and I'll go get the boys some clothes?"
Sister Sylvia's husband was employment challenged, and though she worked three jobs to keep her family afloat, their finances were always underwater, rarely coming up to catch a breath.
"Really Mom," I nudged," We'll just run up to the outlet stores and get the boys some church clothes."
Wanting no part of a nap or spending money unnecessarily in this recession,
Mom stepped away from the kitchen table, leaving her bowl of cold soup and casket flower catalogs.
"Put your wallets away!
No need to buy anything. Wait right here," she said, as she rushed back to her bedroom.

The creaky wooden closet doors opened and closed and into the kitchen marched this not yet merry widow, with three different suit coats.

Now, Sylvia's sons are built like nesting dolls.

Max is a six-footer with a muscular build. Zack, 5'10" or so, narrow and sinewy! Dear Dylan, the youngest, all of 5'7" with a fireplug physique.

Max was handed Dad's newest jacket. A brown and beige checked beauty!

And with the help of some twisting and contorting, there Max stood in his grandfather's jacket.

Max's thick arms, looked like they'd been swallowed by a hound's-tooth Anaconda.

His wrists and fingers dangling from the fabric's grip,

he finally summoned the courage to utter,

"Grandma, this jacket is too small."

Scrawny Zach stood by the stairs, draped in Dad's smokey black tweed.
The shoulder seams, hanging like raglan sleeves, near Zack's narrow biceps.
The lapels drooping like the wings of an underfed vulture.
"Grandma, this jacket is too big," he mumbled.
Dylan's face was red.
Fresh tears etched in his morning application of acne cream.
But there he was, swallowed by a navy blue frock, with tarnished buttons, that just moments before was a well-worn men's sport coat, tailored perfectly to Dad's 6'2" frame.
He stared at the pocket flaps resting below his gym shorts,
but before Dylan could utter a sound, Mom declared,
"Dylan, that jacket is just right!"
Softly, Dylan whimpered,
"But Grandma, when I put my arms down you can't see my hands!"
"Oh, Dylan," Mom reassured, "it will be perfect if you just stand up straight!"
As Mom exited stage left to hunt for matching ties,
the three caballeros, thankfully with no access to a mirror, looked at me for attire approval,
"So?" they muttered, "Do we look sorta Ok?"
"No So Much OK," I winced.
"Aunt Donna," Max whispered, "This is just wrong. Please, do something! It will be like Granddaddy's own clothes will be carrying him down the church steps.
Please?"

But before I could begin to preach about the little known eighth stage of grief,
doing what you're told,
a threatening voice echoed from the other end of the house.
"Don't anyone move!" Mom bellowed,
"I've found the matching ties and three pairs of dress shoes!!"