Freshwater Literary Journal 2021

Harvey Silverman The Miracle of the Dark Suit That old suit, a conservative brown, had been good enough. The need to wear one was infrequent; the fifteen-year-old suit—the only one I owned—and the brown ones that preceded it had always sufficed.

But the color was wrong. I needed a dark suit; attending a funeral and giving the eulogy while wearing a brown one would not do.

I did not yet know when the funeral would be. Tomorrow, next week, perhaps in a month? Date uncertain made no difference; I best be ready, at least so far as a suit.

In the local department store, I wandered about until locating the men’s section, explained to the salesman I had come for a dark suit and quickly chose one, stood still while the alteration marks were placed, and a few days later hung it in my closet.

I was relieved that was done. I was prepared, with regard to clothes if not otherwise, for the funeral and my delivery of the eulogy.

My folks were elderly, and for my dad, the outlook, both intellectually and physically, was particularly grim. A gradual and progressive deterioration had accelerated. He was losing his mind to dementia and could no longer be left alone. Months earlier, when my mom was out one evening, he thought he saw dead bodies in the living room. He called the police who arrived to find no bodies; only pillows arranged neatly, as usual, on the sofa. The confusion that episode evidenced had since become more and more profound throughout the day.

His physical deterioration had likewise rapidly progressed. He was frail and failing; he needed assistance getting in and out of bed and going about the house, often he sat quietly in one place most of the day, frequently dozing. In December he somehow ended up on the floor and was unable to get up, became incontinent, and was finally admitted to the hospital. Stabilized, with life’s end appearing clearly within sight, from the hospital he was to go to a nursing home.

There was an excellent facility half a mile from my folks’ home, one with which my mom had long been involved as a fundraiser, committee chair, and board member. It was the logical and desired spot for my dad.

He could not go there. Not right away. The dementia unit, “the fifth floor” as it was called, was full. My dad would have to stay elsewhere until a bed became available. As nobody was ever discharged from the dementia unit that meant he would have to wait until somebody there died.

My dad was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home that could accept him on a general care unit where he would stay until “the fifth floor” had an opening. This facility was unhappily inferior—dull, poorly lit, residents 120