so, I’m sitting in a hard wooden pew.
At the funeral of a fine upstanding man of God. His Granddaughter is one of my dearest friends and we needed to be there for her. But we also respected Grandpa, so it was a no-brainer.
My husband is sitting next to me holding Ginny. Ginny is quietly sucking on a bottle.
There is a man behind a curtain playing really nice, kinda bluesy versions of some gorgeous old hymns.
The funeral has not yet really started.
Quietly, my husband leans over to me and whispers
“Whose shirt am I wearing?”
It’s not every day you get asked a question like that anywhere, much less at a funeral.
We eventually figured out, based on the white paint that was found on the right sleeve, and the fact that I have a very Gothic niece who likes mens dress shirts (but only in black), and likes to paint that it must be Ivey’s.
The question then was how did it get into my husband’s closet?
After cudgeling our brains for a while we decided it must have been the day she walked to our house in the pouring rain. When she arrived at the door she was drenched and water was still sheeting off her, so I sent her around to the basement entrance where I met her with some dry clothes and a towel. I offered to put her soaked clothing directly into the laundry.
It must have gotten left with us and hung up in Martin’s closet.
So Trish if you heard whispering and a slight giggle in the back left side of the sanctuary…I’m sorry.