The Last Outfit My Father Wore

Three years ago, after my father's passing on February 26, 2019, I started gathering my father's clothing to either donate or take for safekeeping. Along with my mother, I spent time looking through his side of the closet, reminiscing of the times he wore specific articles of clothing and deciding whether the memory warranted cherishing through guardianship.

Crisp were his sophisticated button-ups. His black dress pants were still pressed and his dress shoes; polished, gleaming underneath the warm, brisk rays of sunlight on a spring afternoon. As I gathered my father's clothing in piles, I was reaffirmed that the man who wore them would never wear them again. As much as he adored these articles of clothing; his one leather belt, his ironed black dress shirt or his maroon basic tee, or his loose-fitted blue jeans, I would never see him wear them again. Their owner was gone. We had the same void, these clothes and I. As much as these clothes were to never be worn again, I would never see my father wear them again, either. I pressed one of his shirts against my chest, his smell still impregnating the fabric.

My father, who had always strived to look his best, had passed away roughly two months ago at the time of the sorting. He had transferred, as I prefer to acknowledge his passing as, to somewhere else, somewhere beyond my human knowledge and comprehension, to gallivant through celestial bodies and cosmic plains. But his clothes remained here on earthly grounds, as did many of his humanly belongings.

He left behind a vintage gold watch, which, while my father was alive, constantly needed repair. He wouldn't part with it and get a new one. He left behind a pair of solid black diabetic shoes, a modern style because he forbid wearing anything outdated. He left behind unworn dress shirts, one with gold and navy blue linear stripes that could easily be seen on a working, young man with a desk job. Just like all fathers, my father had his flaws, his short-comings, but being unfashionable wasn't one of them. Even as he became sicker, became almost emaciated, lost much of his hair, and became fragile, he always insisted in looking his best. One of the last times I saw my father without a hospital gown, he looked great, despite his obvious illness and lack of vitality, wearing dress pants and a black button-up, both loose on his frail body from how thin he had become. But he insisted on always looking his best, even as his own mortality loomed in the nearby distance.

Growing up, I don't believe I ever saw my father wearing anything that wasn't presentable. His attire always had a fashionable motif, perhaps not a mainstream trend, but modern and sophisticated. His hair was almost always long, thick, and abundant, even as it grayed. His presence was assertive with a magnificent mustache similar to those of iconic Mexican actors, and broad-shouldered stature that was somewhat intimidating. He often picked me up from school in his Camaro–perhaps his only other valuable possession other than his clothes–listening to Santana tracks, always well-dressed.

And as he got sickly, thin, and withered, he continued to want to look presentable, to be caught wearing his best whether at a family gathering, a local convenience store, or at his endless doctor appointments and hospital visits. I often chuckled when I saw what he was wearing as I took him to see one of his many doctors and physicians. Most would have worn a simple t-shirt and comfortable jeans. But my father always wanted to look his best, no exceptions.

He adamantly asked the same of me, advising me to always look my best; presentable, with every hair strand in place, a washed face, and wearing my best attire. With what appeared to be an inherited taste for good fashion, my father and I would often swapped clothes; him asking me to borrow some subtly modern shirts and I borrow his relics of past trends. I remember that, as a child, my father was this tall and poised man, wearing polished boots or glistening penny loafers, smoothly-ironed pants, and elaborate shirts and button-ups, which were always tucked in. I valued his appreciation for looking great, no matter the circumstances. As an adult, I can't say that my memories differ, at least not when it comes to what he wore.

One of the last times I accompanied him to one of his doctor's appointments, the doctor himself complimented me on how well I dressed. He had become accustomed to me accompanying my father, seeing me on numerous occasions. This isn't to brag about my own sense of style, but merely to detail this memory. As he complimented me, my dad laughed and said "he gets his style from me."

My dad; flawed, failed, troubled, angry, stubborn, addicted, complicated, but never raggedy, never shabby, always presentable.

My father's body was laid to rest in clothes I had previously worn, had previously owned. He wore a dark blue, fitted shirt which I had worn to meetings, to interviews, to business events, and a suit jacket I often paired it with, itself a lighter hue of blue. Both were amongst my favorite articles of clothing. Wherever my dad's soul, his spirit and energy, went off to, I am sure they are precious to the sight, but I wanted his humanly body to be presentable, wearing clothes he would have wanted to wear himself. Once, when I left for a job interview, I was wearing exactly what my dad's body was laid to rest in. I hugged him goodbye as I left for this interview, and there was pride in his eyes. Regardless of whether I got the job or not, he was always proud of me, as he was of all his children. I gave his humanly body that shirt and jacket to remind him, wherever he is, that his sacrifices, his pain, his sufferings, and his few glories here on earth weren't in vain. I wanted him to know that, amongst many things I learned from him, that I continue to value the virtue of looking one's best. I needed him to depart from this earth looking his best, not only for my own peace, but for his, overall.

There are many things I take away from my father's stay here on earth, and one of them is his appreciation for looking one's best. Maybe my father was right that day in the doctor's office when he said "he gets his style from me," and I know that, in his eyes, he had the same pride when he saw what I said goodbye to him in humanly form as he did the day of my interview. It is my hope that, wherever his soul may be, that there are other reasons for him to be proud of me of other than choosing his last outfit.

My belief is that I will reunite with my father's spirit one day, in whichever way or form, but we will lock in a meaningful embrace, both looking our best.

In life, he grow through many ups and downs, we struggle, and we feel vast amounts of pain. We suffer. We cry and we feel emotions that are, perhaps at the time, way too profound and too real. This, my friends, brothers, and sisters, is perfectly fine.

I miss my father immensely. I think of him everyday, just like many others do when they've lost someone they love. The sadness and grieving is part of our human experience.

Why not go through it looking our best?