‘You’re looking very smart,’ I said to my ex-husband who was looking rather dashing in a full on suit and a tie.
‘I don’t know what I am supposed to wear to a funeral,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’
Everyone around us was in standard Jewish funeral attire – slacks, shirts with rolled up sleeves, yarmulkes, kinda casual.
He was the only one in full on wool Armani. In 300 degrees heat.
‘Give me your tie,’ I whispered. ‘You’ll feel a bit more comfortable.’
He took it off, passed it over and I placed it in my handbag.
We were somber, behind the coffin, behind our dear friends whose father had died unexpectedly.
A pause as the mourners stopped to take their turn at carrying the coffin.
A pause as we paused too, realising we were mourning together.
An odd place to come together, a cemetery.
I held his umbrella when he went to shovel soil over the coffin.
He held me while I fixed my smudged not so perfect anymore mascara.
It was a sad but beautiful service. A fitting goodbye for an extraordinary man with an extraordinary family.
A family who so often during our own married life, had brought our family together.
It felt perfectly right that they were the ones who should bring us together again.
Even in death.
It’s a good thing to be able to walk with your ex-husband.
To cry with him.
Feel sad with him.
And also to feel comfortable with him.
Even if he is overdressed as fuck.