AS ALWAYS
I put them on thin wooden hangers, the kind they used in country general stores back in the fifties when you could buy a denim shirt along with a box of halfpenny nails and jug of maple syrup all from under one roof. A mercantile where wooden floors creaked as you walked and cotton boxer shorts were kept in drawers wrapped in tissue all smelling of pine.
I have separated my closet into sections; it's a big closet with two levels of hanging garments on other side of a shelving area for folded clothes. I keep my sweaters folded on the shelves and organized by color. On either side of the stacked shelves I've organized the rest of the closet with one hanging bar to the right for my pants, another for my summer shirts, on the left a third bar for my winter shirts with the last bar for my collection of vests. I tucked those wooden hangers in with my winter shirts, three hangers for three shirts: a heavy denim long-sleeve, a faded cotton button-down with barely perceptible blue stripes on an off white field, and a grey and white ticking stripe. These are the shirts I pulled from Jim's closet before his sister put the rest of his clothes into black lawn refuse bags to be carted off to Goodwill.
We met over fifty years ago after we both had matriculated into tenth grade coming from different junior high schools to a brand new high school that had just opened for its first set of students. We were an unlikely pair; he was a football player and boy scout, I wasn't. But we both loved art and that was enough, we bonded over plaster of Paris and bas-relief. It was high school knowledge that art classes were mostly attended by kids who were looking for an easy pass/fail class with no final exam. Roland Jansky, our art teacher, had no intention of making it easy. He made it challenging, inspiring and fun. He bonded us into a group that would stick together through the rest of high school, college, our first trips to Europe, careers in New York City and finally back to our roots. Best friends forever.
When Jim died on a Sunday I couldn't find the tears. I sat with him in the hospital. I recognized him but I didn't recognize him. I knew he was dead but I didn't. He was my rock and rocks don't die. I ran my hand through his lush mane of gorgeous white hair and touched his forehead. It was still warm, not yet cold. It was the last time I touched him. The German in both of us always kept us at a physical distance. An awkward hug with a fist pound on the back and an equally uncomfortable disengagement was the best we could muster and only on very rare occasions. It wasn't the way we expressed our love but we did love each other, massively.
Now I'm left to process. My closet now has three more hangers each with a shirt he wore. Each day since he died I've run my hand first over my summer shirts, then across the shelves of sweaters and finally onto the long-sleeve worn denim work shirt, the faded blue and off-white cotton button-down a bit too large for me and the grey striped ticking shirt. Since Jim died I haven't worn one of my shirts. I've worn his. It keeps him close to me. He hugs me all day long.
Photo: James Koch
