Words By Whittall

  Moira fingered the fabric in her closet: a winter wool designer suit purchased at an outlet store. Her mother had been with her then. Mom’s the first spur-of-the-moment trip outside the house in years. The suit was fine, her mother said, but a little snug. Perhaps one size up. Moira complied. Two days later her mother patted her hand. “The eulogy was lovely, dear. But all I could think about was what a great job you’d done in hemming those pants.” Moira laughed bleakly at the memory of her father’s funeral. Her family wasn’t one for feeling their feelings. She’d been pleased to give her mother something else to think about that sad day. A decade had passed; the hem held. Moira knew she’d been lucky. At 49 her dad was the first funeral for which she’d chosen her own outfit, her grandparents and other family friends having died when she was a child.   At 59, there were too many funerals. She’d worn these the original pants to mourn her business partner in January, then bought a new