Unbelievable, but her name was Tooter. I have no idea where this came from.

I think about her all the time, at least on occasion (oxymoron?) She lived next door to us out in the country where we lived. Her throat was raspy because she smoked a lot. She was wild and free and beautiful and always a good time. She had esophagus cancer once, and it went into remission. They said after 5 years of remission she would be ok. On her 5th year she was all clear and we celebrated. I was 14 years old. We went next door, and laughed about how she beat cancer. Champagne was popped though I never drank. I wouldn’t drink alcohol until I was 26 years old. But we played music that night, and celebrated her victory.

Less than a year later, she would be dead. The esophagus cancer came back and it killed her. I don’t remember the funeral, but I do remember her husband having my mom and I come over to pick out clothes of hers to keep. We went into her closets. She had nice clothes. Sweatshirts from the local community college, and dresses. Leather and suede. My mother and I were grateful because mom was a teacher, and didn’t make much income. My stepfather was sick a lot and didn’t work. A few months after Tooter’s death he would die too. But we didn’t know that yet. We had a mere 8 weeks left with him and we had no idea.

Carefully, we picked out which of Tooter’s clothes we wanted. “Please, take more” her widowed husband encouraged. But we felt greedy. My mother and I, standing in Tooter’s bedroom picking out her clothes to wear while she was dead. “She would have wanted you to wear them” he said while we selected a few more things. “I’m just taking the rest to Goodwill” he said, and we took even a few more things. We left their house with trash bags filled with clothing, like bandits in the night.

And we wore them for years. Into the new century, after moves and divorces and deaths. Up until last year I still carried some of her clothing. The baggy sweatshirt, and pearl button up shirt. After all, she had nice things.