Death Comes to a Black Suit

On January 16, 2010, I made my inaugural appearance in my sole black suit.

I officiated the nuptials of my esteemed friend, Cindy, to her husband, Chris.

In 2009, while she was employed at Banana Republic in Chicago, we agreed to an honorarium my services with the black suit. That suit is a 42R with 34x32 pants. Since then, I have exclusively worn J.Crew Slim Ludlow suits [48+ and counting] in size 40R, accompanied by 33x32 pants.

My physique has undergone a slight transformation.

Since that initial occasion, my black suit has exclusively worn for events that necessitate black or dark attire, specifically weddings and funerals.

This suit holds numerous anecdotes.

I donned the black suit to attend the wedding of my first son, David, to his radiant wife, Anna. I subsequently wore it to officiate the nuptials of my second son, Michael, to his enchanting wife, Amber. I have also worn the black suit to officiate over 40 weddings, many of which were for friends and others for strangers. I met Victor at a Starbucks that no longer exists, and we became friends. I officiated his wedding to his beautiful wife, Kristen. Years later, Victor and Kristen renewed their vows in a ceremony officiated by me. Victor and Kristen were the second set of friends I formed at that Starbucks, and they subsequently became my officiants for their weddings.

Some couples have divorced, while most remain married.

I vividly recall wearing the black suit for the consecutive funerals of a 19-year-old man and a 72-year-old man: a drive-by shooting victim and a pneumonia victim; both had succumbed within 18 hours of each other. I wore this suit to officiate my father’s funeral and later officiated my mother’s funeral years later. I cannot recount all the funerals I have officiated, but the most poignant was for a teenage suicide. Everyone wept over the loss of a beautiful, tormented young man. So did I.

The final time I donned my black suit was to officiate the wedding of two dear friends, Arlene and Leo, on May 19, 2018. As I entered the venue, I inadvertently slipped and fell, causing a tear in the knee of the pants.

I have made the decision not to repair this suit.

Over the course of eight years, I have dry-cleaned this suit seven times and steam-pressed it ten times. It has been stained with tears, smeared with makeup, and has had cologne and perfume linger in its fibers. On one occasion, a bird defecated on it. Despite these treatments, it still retains its appearance of newness.

Last weekend, I retired the black suit. It will join other garments with historical significance at The Salvation Army in Whittier, California. I am somewhat melancholic about the end of this chapter in my life.

May I request a favor? If you have a photograph of me wearing this black suit, I would be grateful if you could post it or send it to me.

Thank you.