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THERE’S A PHYSICAL PART
TO REMEMBRANCE

A Widow Bit – Jan. 20, 2008

By Mary Koch

The “barn jacket” is about all that’s left of John’s clothing now. In the days following his death, two friends cleaned out his closets and drawers for me, giving away everything that was usable. It was a great kindness; if I’d had to do it myself, I’d still be at, fondling each item, remembering, remembering, remembering.

I vaguely recall being told during a course in religion that the word “remember” is etymologically related to an Old French word, “membre,” which refers to a limb or member of the body. During the Mass, when the celebrant quotes Jesus saying, “Do this in remembrance of me,” the meaning is not only “Don’t forget me,” but “Be part of my body.”

My dime store theology is a stretch from where I started, but I got there because John’s disreputable-looking jacket, which should have been landfill fodder long ago, has a certain sacramental quality for me. It is certainly more holey than holy, but to my surprise, I’m hanging on to it.

The jacket must have been new at one time, but it was already old, frayed and thoroughly soiled the first time John pulled it out of his closet, just after we were married nearly 29 years ago. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have married him if I’d seen the jacket first, but I was appalled. I’m not sure what the original color was, olive green maybe. The lining was in shreds, the inner lining leaking out, the zipper pretty much nonfunctional.

When John had a barn and horses, he would throw the jacket on to feed critters and muck out stalls. By the time we married, his horse-breeding days were long-since over, but he still had dogs to feed, a kennel to clean, snow to shovel. He hung the barn jacket on the coat rack by the door, a winter-long blight on our interior decor.

After John’s stroke, the jacket was relegated to the back of a closet until we finally put it in a yard sale. No one wanted it at the 25-cent asking price, yet when I saw it hanging forlornly among the yard sale rejects, I decided it had too much history to simply toss it out, and I PAID to have it dry cleaned.

It’s back on the hook this winter. I wear it when I go out to feed the birds, just as John had once, and I connect with him in a physical way.

Last week we had a small concert here. I spiffed up the house to “company” standard. I welcomed the crowd on John’s behalf, noting that we’d been planning the concert before he died and he’d been in on initial rehearsals.

I didn’t notice until everyone had gone home that I’d forgotten to take the barn jacket off the coat rack. There it had hung, in all its tattered, stained splendor, right where people had gathered to sip punch and socialize during intermission. John had been aptly represented and certainly remembered.

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