He stood in the lobby just steps away from the tropical fish tank, betas and Nemos darting about in complete ignorance of what was about to happen on the other side of the glass. Shortly after his wife passed, he’d dropped off four of her blouses to be reimagined as soft teddy bears for the grandchildren. Today they were ready and waiting to be gathered in, squeezed and sniffed all over for that familiar scent of lavender soap and cookie dust. On the human side of the fish tank glass, memories pushed against the corners of his eyes, a bittersweet mix of relief and aching loss.

The bears, or any items our volunteer staff members make from a loved one’s clothing, came packaged in large clear plastic bags, the kind used to wrap baskets filled with Easter candy or themed collections of gifts for charity auctions. I picked them up by their bow-tied tops and pushed through the door to the lobby. As I held them out to him, he dissolved in a shaking of tears.

I wasn’t two days into my new job as volunteer coordinator when one of the social workers approached my cubicle dragging a large lidded tote full of sweatshirts.

“The family would like these made into twelve quilts. I told them I didn’t think they’d be quite right but we’d see what we could do. Any ideas? Hi, you must be Liz, the new coordinator. I’m Ruth, one of the social workers. Welcome to hospice!”. I returned her smile and shook her hand. We both looked down at the tote, at the pilled and colorful contents, confident that creativity would win this one. “Pillows, perhaps?”, I offered, knowing our sewing team of volunteers would be able to turn a dozen of those around a lot faster than twelve full-size bed quilts, and they’d look much neater. Thick knit fabric doesn’t lend itself to the precision that most quilts require.

Ruth left me to consider the possibilities and I started unpacking a lifetime of sweatshirt memories, sorting by size and color. When I came to the last three at the bottom of the tote, I spied a large patchwork vest hugging the inside corner and unfolded it. Made up of squares held together by a simple blanket stitch, I touched each patch, counting. There were twelve, exactly.

I called the local fabric store and placed an order for twelve 14” square pillow inserts.

We’re accustomed to the starkness of firsts and lasts in our end-of-life setting, yet these moments, these sacred encounters never fail to slow us down and I consider the deep impact of finality the families feel as they hand over that flannel shirt dad was wearing when he passed or a sister’s favorite apron, worn especially for the Thanksgiving meal she’d prepare every year (cranberry sauce stains and all). Bags of clothing always come with backstories tucked in and among the fabric like invisible sentries guarding the cotton and buttons that will soon take on a different shape. In that tender moment of hand-off, we hold them as carefully as an Emile Galle glass sculpture and register the responsibility we’ve just accepted. In hospice, you don’t get a second chance to do it right.

In my own closet are too many unemployed business-casual outfits hanging patiently until I return to working at the office full time. Pandemic restrictions and a home office setting for four of the five work days have loosened my wardrobe habits, making me grateful for the “stop video” option on virtual meetings. I haven’t totally abandoned personal hygiene (I feel it necessary to make that clear) but a daily shower isn’t as necessary as it was when I worked in close proximity to others; last night’s leggings and long-sleeved shirt work just fine as today’s uniform. I still know what’s appropriate to wear and when it’s ok to relax the dress code. “Pandemic Super-casual” will give way to “Back in the Office” soon enough. For now, I’m getting away with wearing pretty much the same pants, shirt and sweater on Mondays without anyone asking if that’s the only outfit I own.

But I think other people notice what we wear more than we do. I’m grateful for clothes that fit and even come close to flattering me, and then I get about the business of the day. It still surprises me when someone says “that’s my favorite jacket you wear” because it means they noticed. Eventually it may come to mean something more when my time is short and those “lasts” settle into a family member’s memory of holiday gatherings and the shirt I always wore. It’s easy to forget that in the social convention of getting dressed for the occasion at hand.

Dad had a few cotton button-down shirts he’d wear when he went fishing, and after he passed in hospice, I handed them over to one of the volunteer team members to make into fish (with no disrespect at all, we just aren’t teddy bear people). I looked for a pattern that was more artsy than juvenile and left it in her capable hands. She delivered in less than two weeks and the results still rest on the bed in the downstairs guestroom. Each time I run my fingers across the soft plaid strip-pieced shape of the fish’s fins and body, my mind settles on those images of dad in his boat, cutting a silent seam in the water of Marble Lake as a setting sun pulled him to the places where the large-mouth bass gathered among the weeds. He probably didn’t even know we were watching from the cottage windows.

In the rhythm of our days, I suspect these moments of clothing awareness come and go. Add a humble spirit to that mix and it’s likely we go about our business with barely a thought given to the fabric hanging easily on our shoulders and sheathing our legs. Of course that’s fine and normal. But perhaps one day, for someone we know, the last thing they remember us wearing will indeed be the last thing we were wearing, and everything will change. Be it unsettling or not, people who love you are paying attention and collecting memories with you at the center, moving about comfortably in your favorite togs.

Might wanna take that extra look in the mirror before heading out the door.