The Crying Jacket

remembering my dad

Hello!

It’s Father’s Day in the US so I thought I’d deviate from my regular Sunday posting and share a blog post I wrote back in February 2022, 3 months after my dad died.

It’s hard to believe that this is my second without him. The first was overshadowed by caretaking for my mom.

Truthfully, the day doesn’t pack a punch for me-it’s a Sunday, and emotionally, I’m doing well at this moment. I credit much of that to being brave enough to let the grief ebb and flow daily, not just during the holidays.

I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about how I feel like I am entering a new stage of my relationship with my parents. Although they are no longer physically present, their DNA and energy are still in and around me. It’s a tricky but worthwhile thing to negotiate—not unlike when they were physically here.

My dad & I were thick as thieves (in the most Irish Catholic New England way…all small talk, nothing heavy), and I’ve been actively cursing him as things he assembled in this house have broken one by one the last two weeks because I can’t call him and have him fix them for me. I swear he knew how to use every tool, or at least acted like it.

One of my favorite baseball memories was at David Ortiz's last game. My dad also totally went out and bought a matching moped so we were dorky twins tearing up the town. Our last ride together was on a beautiful summer night downtown, parking ontop of the hill over looking Plymouth Rock and soaking in the concert.

In the post I’m sharing below I held a wish for myself that I’d continue to watch baseball. There are some things that have died with my dad for the time being and baseball is one of those. Although I had two brothers, I was the first born so I was his baseball buddy. It was one of the things that tied us most deeply together. I’ve yet to have the desire to turn on a game and with each new rule change and baseball season that passes, I’m not sure I ever will again, and for now that’s okay.

So wherever you land on the Father’s day spectrum, be kind to you.

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The Crying Jacket- 2.27.2022

You’d kill me if you knew how the Jacket was funded. I’ll technically be paying for it well into my 40’s. As a freshman in college, it was part of a shopping trip sponsored by excess student loan money. It’s okay though, I’m sure I bought most of the required textbooks too. 

It’s the real deal. Purchased at 19 Jersey Street (formally Yawkey Way). You were the easiest to shop for–sports apparel or kitchen gadgets. Maybe the shopping ease was because you were a stereotypical dad or, as your oldest and only daughter, a lot of your hobbies became mine.

I don’t remember if the Jacket was a birthday or Christmas gift, but it was a grand slam. It became your go-to outerwear from 2013 and most recently, November 27, 2021 at 2:09pm (as documented on the BJ’s receipt that will never leave its pocket)–two days before you died.

I’ve heard of smoking jackets, but now I am the proud owner of a crying jacket. Although, the Jacket is more of a hybrid until the smell of your Parliament Lights dissipates from the fabric.

I never understood the appeal of curling up in someone else’s clothing until now. 

When I want to feel close to you–the Majestic Authentic gets put on until my sob has reached a satisfactory snot level. 

I dream that the Jacket will become more than just a glorified tissue for me and there are signs of hope. 

One night it made an appearance after I got home from one of your favorite places–Market Basket. You loved grocery shopping and so I decided to include you. As I put away groceries, the Jacket went on and so did some yacht rock. It brought a smile to my face, because I remember you doing the same activity as clear as day. 

Hopefully one day I will be able to put it on and head into Fenway to see an early April game…or better yet, one in late October. 

Until then the Jacket resides in my closet among the dog haired covered cardigans. 

Also, don’t worry, the appropriateness of putting on a Red Sox jacket solely to cry is not lost on me. Many tears (both of the sad & happy variety) have been shed at the cost of that club.

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