My friend Julie loved to shop (like, really loved to shop) – not only for herself but also for the people she cared about. When we worked together in the early days of our friendship, she would thrift shop for many of the women with whom we worked (including me!). She knew our sizes and our styles and would find perfect, high-quality items – at even more perfect prices – for each of us. There were years when pretty much everything I wore was thrifted by Julie, and even 25 years later many of those pieces are still in my wardrobe. And when she died, I wore several of the pieces to her funeral, including my favorite pair of boots.
Julie was someone who could wear ten necklaces at once and a ring on every finger and it never looked like too much. She was always put together and always looked beautiful, even during a very difficult four-year illness. Before her death, she told some of her closest family and friends, including me and one of my daughters, that, after she died, she wanted us to select our favorite pieces from the rather extensive collection of beautiful clothing, accessories, jewelry, cosmetics and fragrance she had accumulated over the years.
A few months after her death, her partner organized a gathering of friends and family so we could fulfill her wish. Getting out of the car to go into her house was even more difficult than I imagined and for the first hour or so I looked through her things with tears in my eyes, unable to clearly see what I was holding in my hands.
I found things that were meaningful to me and that I remembered her wearing: a necklace I had given her shortly after her diagnosis, a ring she almost always wore and a teal purse that she often used when we’d go out for breakfast or to an art fair (to buy more jewelry, of course, preferably teal).
Julie would have absolutely loved this little “shopping” adventure she had curated over a lifetime. I imagined her there among us saying, “Oh you have to take this – it would look amazing on you!” Or, “Oh, be careful with that necklace, the clasp isn’t to be trusted.” Or, a very honest, “No, that’s not really your color. How about this?” Others who were there agreed they could feel her presence and almost hear her infectious laugh. What started out as something very sad became heartwarming and incredibly cathartic.
When my daughter and I got home, I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, wrapped in Julie’s things – a cardigan (teal); a beautiful, furry, boa-style scarf (teal); necklaces, bracelets and rings (teal, teal, teal); and wearing some of her perfume that my daughter selected. (“Oh! This smells just like Julie!”)
It’s interesting, isn’t it, the strong connections we can have to objects and scents and the memories they inspire? Those connections can help us keep the memories of our loved ones alive. Sometimes they even give us the opportunity to say our loved one’s name and perhaps share a story.
I recently went shopping with Julie’s bright teal bag and was approached by a woman who was working in the store. She inquired if I needed any help and then, looking at the bag, said, “Wow! I love that bag! Girl, if you ever want to get rid of it, please let me know!” Sensing she was a kind soul, I opened up to her and explained that I would never part with it because it had belonged to a close friend who had died a few months prior. She was clearly touched, and we chatted for a bit about the bag and about Julie. (“Yes, isn’t the color amazing?” “Oh no, she definitely didn’t pay full price!”) As I left the store, I realized Julie’s bag had inspired me to connect with a complete stranger just as Julie had done so many times when she was out and about in the world, making fast friends with the people she met along the way. It made me smile and even softened some of the grief, filling a bit of the void with fond memories of a friend who always made others feel loved and valued and who, even as she knew she was dying, wanted to make sure each of the people she loved had things to remember her by.
