When my friend died, I started wearing his shirts. He died the day after we celebrated Christmas eve, and last weekend his widow came over and gave me a dozen dress and casual shirts, a sports coat and a cashmere sweater. She said that of the many people he knew, I came closest in size. She also knew that I wear dress shirts to work and that’d I’d use his.
The shirts came fresh from the cleaners and were still covered in cellophane. Even so, before I put the first one on, I had a moment of superstitious hesitation: What if there’s something about death that is contagious? It didn’t make sense as he had died from a heart attack. I’m now wearing his shirts almost every day, and I’m glad I do. He was my friend, but also a father figure. He was 40 years older than me and someone I admired. Wearing his shirts, with a hint of his smell still on them, reminds me of what a live well lived means.
Nehaveigur 