I don’t have a dark suit. At least I didn’t until a couple of days ago. My great uncle passed away this week, and it got me thinking about it. I’m not going to the funeral. My sister is going while I look after mom. But there was an alternative plan where I would go instead.
One problem is that I don’t have a dark suit. I don’t really have any suits, but I thought I could buy one and have it tailored in time for the funeral. But then, we switched plans, and it wasn’t necessary.
However, I am taking care of my mother, as I’ve detailed in some previous blog posts. She is still strong and could be with us for quite some time, however, things are progressing. That’s that expression they use, they being professional caregivers–progressing, not deteriorating, not winding down, not coming apart, certainly not dieing. No, the disease is progressing, another one of those perverse Orwellian twists of words that seem to cloud around dementia.
Sooner or later, I’m going to need that dark suit. I figured that I’d rather have one in the closet than have to scramble to get one when the time came. So, I headed to the local Men’s Warehouse.