I had torn the room apart looking for the black shirt yesterday. It’s my go-to in situations like these, when you don’t want to think about what you have to put on. Sometimes, the black shirt is exactly what you need.

***

I got it at a clothing swap a few years ago. I’d picked it out of the pile because I thought it was a pretty shirt, for yet another black one anyway. Since university, I had amassed a collection of dress shirts, t-shirts, workout shirts, club shirts, girls’ night out shirts, lounging ‘round the house shirts and just general purpose shirts, all in black. But when I grabbed this one out of the pile of things up for swapping, held it to my chest and winced in the mirror as I swayed back and forth to see if I could make it mine, I knew this would be a shirt that would come in handy, especially on days when I didn’t want to think about what to wear.

Yesterday was one of those days, when I couldn’t think. I attended the funeral service of an infant.

***

He was a sweet baby whom I wish I could have met because he sounded like a wonderful little boy. You could just tell the way his parents talked about him, by the glowing photographs displayed in the brightly lit reception area of the funeral home, that he was a truly delicate soul. He passed away on Christmas.

***

I only ever wore that shirt out socially one time. It was to a dinner with Rob, probably a weeknight, probably a hole in the wall Thai food joint, our very favorite way to eat in the city.

***

I first fished it out of the clothing swap pile because it had a vintage feel to it, with a twist of what I can only describe as boho-goth, if that really makes any sense. It had a high collar that was ruffled and the bodice and sleeves were made of a double-layered black chiffon that appeared as thick as cotton, but oddly felt as soft as silk. Not bad for trading a Banana Republic sweater that I only wore twice. Maybe three times.

At the neck, there was a piece of translucent black fabric, with a soft flower pattern that needed to be closely examined to fully take in the outlines of its delicate shape. Lastly, there was a brooch-like gem, made entirely of silk, chiffon and luxurious thread, which sat at the base of my neck. It was on the cusp of making the shirt too over-the-top, but somehow it finished it nicely, making it look almost understated.

***

Shortly after that dinner with Rob, when I first wore the shirt, I wore it to the funeral of a close family friend. His passing left a gap where he used to be. I miss him very much.

On the day of his funeral, that shirt was the only thing I could find in black and so I reached for it, in haste. After wearing it to that funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to reinvent it as something I would wear to have fun in, so it just became theblackshirt – the one I wore to all funerals and wakes for the next three years. It became my uniform for sadness, my go-to, my constant in times where consistency felt anything but.

***

In an attempt to clean out our lives recently and clear the clutter that I’ve insisted to Rob has been plaguing my mind, we detoxed our closet and donated six bags of clothing, unused for months, if not years, to a local charity.

Somehow, in a moment of confusion, theblackshirt ended up in one of those bags.

I can vaguely remember looking at it, thumbing its make-shift brooch and waving the ruffled chiffon sleeves in Rob’s direction, asking, “Do you think I should keep this?” I know I wanted him to say something like, “Sure, it’s not like we’ll ever be going to another funeral, right?” But he didn’t. Instead I filled in the blanks, decided I wanted no more funerals in my immediate future and tossed it into bag #4, I think.

***

Yesterday, as I dressed for the funeral, I remembered what I had done and wished so hard that theblackshirt was there to ease the stress of having to pick out what you wear to say goodbye to a baby. I wanted it to comfort me somehow, to take away the decision-making associated with such tragedy, because there is comfort, albeit small, in not having to think at all on days like these. There was once comfort in having theblackshirt to do the thinking for me.

I thought about the baby’s mother – a friend and co-worker – having to make a similar decision that morning, and my stomach started to hurt.  How do you do that? How do eat? How do you drink water? How do you brush your teeth? How do you sit at the foot of your closet, look up, and decide what to cover yourself with on a day like this.

***

I get that it’s the third day of a new year, a new decade, and that posting something positive or uplifting or not about black shirts would fall into the category of more apropos, but there are times in life that never have the right time, like losing a child or picking out what to wear on what will surely be one of the saddest days of the year. The day you gather in a small room to hear the eulogy of a new born baby.

***

I won’t go into detail about the contents of the eulogy, although it was beautiful, or how the sadness of every person there was palpable with every hug and arm caress given to the young mother and father, who had spent the second day of a new year saying goodbye to their baby they’d only just met three months ago.

That’s not my story to tell.

But I will share the gift their baby left for them, which they passed on to us, the grievers, who sat there in awe of how two people who had been through so much could still manage to be so thankful.

They thanked their baby for having changed them forever, as people, as individuals.

They thanked him for his eyes, which they gifted to another baby who needed to see.

They thanked him for the memories they shared, though few, that would never be marred by harsh words or groundings or storming out of the room when he couldn’t have the car.

They thanked him for what he had brought them rather than allowing themselves – or us, the grievers – to be consumed by what had been taken away.

There is never a good time to grieve; there is never a good time to suffer; and there is never a good time to write about the moments that change you, forever. You don’t go to the moments; the moments, it seems, come to you.