My Father's Clothes

Several times in the year or so after my father passed, my mother would call me over to one or two closets in which she'd neatly hung my father's clothes with a veneration reserved for a priest's vestments. "He hardly wore these," she'd say with a sad, delicate wave of her hand. I’d look in her eyes and what I'd see there was not so much her grief in the lengthening absence of her mate of over 53 years. What I'd see most, was her hope in my acceptance of the utility of the offer. These were reverential, intimate moments between the two of us. The third presence, the obvious one, Dad’s, was hanging on the clothes rack. So, each time, I selected two or three items that I liked more than the others and thanked her. 

It's an odd, sad and complex thing to walk around in your dead father's clothes. There are times I asked myself that if his clothes retain some essence of him, would I absorb it?  I already had 90% of his genetic makeup. Would the clothes make it complete? All his successes, setbacks, beliefs and experiences–would I inherit these by osmosis?

Dad was 5'9" and barrel-chested. I am 6'1" and barrel-chested. At the top, we are alike. Dad's legs were short, thick, muscle-knotted and bandy. I have my mother's longer, more graceful legs. Dad's scent is sweet and masculine. It is cinnamon, musk, Irish Spring soap, Old Spice aftershave, graham crackers and face stubble. I’ve known this scent/signature all my life. My own scent is much harder for me to describe, though I know it is similar to his.

I passed over his sportcoats, which I really did not like and assumed would not fit me properly. The first item I chose smelled the strongest of him, even though freshly washed. It's a navy blue zippered pullover. As I held it to my face, a flash of grief surged through me with the knowledge that once I took it, wore it and washed it, eventually my molecules would displace all his molecules and its scent would change, become entirely mine, not his. Everything fades. Molecular traces are replaced. Though I honor his memory by wearing Dad’s pullovers, I actively erase his imprint by doing so. This is not something one can do casually.

Among the hardest sensations to describe are smells. They are so abstract, primitive, subjective and memory-dependent as to resist descriptive language. Yet anybody, particularly a family member, who'd put nose to this pullover, would recognize it in an instant for the man it belonged to before it became mine. Scents persist after you have left a room or a life, but they, like everything, are transitory. Except perhaps, in the brain, where I think they lay curled and dormant all your life.

Now my father never was a clothes horse like his eldest son. He had much casual wear, but to my knowledge, only one good “Sunday suit” which he wore at his 50th wedding anniversary celebration. And he was buried in it. He never cared about cotton thread counts or whether a tie was silk or rayon. At work, he dressed entirely for economy and utility. He wore a physician’s white lab smock instead of a jacket. At home, he was fond of tee-shirts, pullovers and shorts. One of his favorite shirts was emblazoned with the legend “Pray for me, my wife is Italian.” Not something you’d ever catch me in. In my last “dressed up” pictures of him, his tie and collar are askew. I battle the pointless urge to reach back through time and the image and fix him.

I on the other hand, have half a dozen “label” suits; that though timelessly cut and tailored to my various size perturbations, largely go unworn. This isn’t a large selection but it is a “quality one,” as I do have an eye for style. I’ve had to. A large man for most of my adult life, (on a budget my entire life), I’ve repeatedly cursed the fashion industry's abiding scheme to not just deny big men fashionable attire, but to actively segregate them in its dowdiest wares. I still think it’s true, though it’s not so personally relevant anymore. I’ve lost nearly a hundred pounds and men’s fashion coyly beckons me hither again.

Add to which, my work rarely requires tailored suits, silk ties and fitted shirts. On those rare occasions when it does, I’m certainly ready to make a good appearance. On a daily basis, I dress for comfort and utility. I work in sweats. Dad’s pullovers see me though deadlines, conference calls and long nights in front of my keyboard. I wear my father's clothes—proudly, though a bit sadly—having learned that clothes do not so much make the man as the man makes the clothes.

(c) Richard M. Weiss, 2012