After someone dies, you’ve got to make all kinds of weird formal arrangements in addition to, you know, mourning. Like what her obituary should say or what happens to that old chintz chair in the corner or apparently, what kind of finger sandwiches to order from the caterer.
You also get to decide what the deceased in buried in.
Oh, I’ll handle this one.
My mother suggested, and I couldn’t agree more, that we bury my grandmother in her black and white check suit. This morning, I confirmed our sartorial selection and inquired as to the details.
“Which jewelry?” I asked.
“Her wedding ring, of course, and just some clip on earrings.”
“Oh. Okay. And with the black turtleneck underneath?”
“Yes. Don’t you think?”
“I do. Which shoes?”
“Yeah. What shoes are you putting on Grandma?”
“Um… no shoes.”
“Well, what’s she need shoes for?”
“Mom. You’re sticking her in this fabulous suit, not to mention her fabulous ring and she’s barefoot. That doesn’t seem strange to you?”
“Not particularly. Is it important to you?”
Oh god. I don’t want to stress my poor mother out. I’m sure I could say, ‘Yes, it’s important to me. I need Grandma to be outfitted head to toe. Not head to ankle.’ But this clearly wasn’t an issue for my mother and thus, it shouldn’t be an issue to me, right?
So, I’m letting it go.
Just know, as I get up in front of her casket at the funeral on Wednesday and give my little granddaughter’s “comic relief” eulogy, the entire time I will be thinking, “Jesus Christ, she has no shoes on. My Grandma is walking into the pearly gates of heaven in plain old pantyhose...”