The Suit

Interviews and funerals. Funerals and interviews. The suit comes out for two occasions and these are those. I think I’ve had too many of both lately, but maybe this is the way life is once you are all growed up. Forever more it will feel like you’re seeing too many funerals. The thought horrifies me. I guess the interviews are easier, in the long run.

Weddings, I guess. Eventually. I haven’t been to a wedding since I was fifteen. Those might be OK.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable wearing it. Everything feels wrong. It makes me kind of naked. Yesterday as I walked across the city towards an appointment I was once again rendered incapable of finding something to do with my hands. I imagine that people are staring at me. They’re not staring at the dozens of other people on the street wearing suits, they’re staring at me. “That guy is bluffing. Jesus Christ, how can anyone take him seriously?”

This suit is a time machine. I find myself rummaging through pockets in the nervous minutes before showtime and pulling out emotional depth-charges from months ago. This time a cotton handkerchief pressed into my hand by my mother, so that I might offer it to anyone in need of it. Another time a crumpled paper with the handwritten reading I had delivered from the altar. A sharp poke in the chest followed by a rush of calm and perspective. Interviews and funerals. No comparison.