Many years ago it was arranged for me to meet a young woman who my son, Peter, was dating.
The young woman was going to spend some time in India. My friend thought that I’d be able to give her advice from my travels there following my stint in the Peace Corps.
The young woman and I agreed to meet at an Indian restaurant in Midtown. It was opulent, decorated with brass platters and samovars. I arrived first and was standing on the restaurant’s beautiful burgundy-colored carpet.
When she arrived, before either of us had even said hello, I blurted out, “Look! Your sweater matches the carpet!”
When I told Peter about this, he hit his forehead, and said, “Oh, Mom! You didn’t!”
As years went by this became a catch phrase, not only within our family, but also with my friends.
Sweaters matched eyes, earrings matched tee shirts, jackets matched sunsets, coats matched stormy skies.
One time my younger son, Steve, slid his Bronco off the side of a mud road. After great effort with me driving and him pushing, I looked at him as he slid behind the wheel and said, “Your blue shirt splashed with all that mud matches the sides of your truck!”
Now here in my independent living facility, beautiful white hair matches the crisp white of tablecloths and napkins.
The healing blue and purple of a black eye matches the tie-dye blotches on a tee shirt.
The bright pink braids of a waitress matches the rich pink of a cashmere sweater.
And, of course, blouses match sunsets.
A few weeks ago on February 14, I’d tossed on a tee shirt for an early physical therapy appointment. I kept it on for the day as I worked unpacking boxes that had just been delivered from storage.
I hurried to the dining room and was dismayed to see that it was adorned in red: flowers, balloons, napkins, the works. And, the residents were resplendent in shades of red.
My dear friend, Vicky, and her husband are doing a tour of Latin America. We correspond by text. Wanting to relieve my angst a little, I texted her explaining the situation with a photo of me sitting at the table.
Her reply? “Your yellow shirt matches the carpet!”
Last year a few days after I’d broken my back, my doctor said I had to go to the hospital immediately. There the ER doctors gave me unimaginable news. I might not see another day.
My daughter-in-law had sat with me until Peter could arrive. He’d been working thirty hours straight, and she‘d insisted that before he drove over he had to change his shirt.
There wasn’t room in the narrow space for three people and my bed so my daughter-in-law stepped out and Peter, after asking the nurse if he could disconnect the beeping vital-signs machine sidled his way around the equipment to my side.
What would I say to him, in this perhaps the last time we would see each other?
He smiled and leaned in close. I looked up and said, “Did you plan it? Your shirt matches my paper hospital gown.”