The Gray Shirt

Grief takes many forms and can be expressed unexpectedly

The Gray Shirt:

My mother-in-law was a beautiful woman with ice blue eyes and a sleek crown of white hair. She gave my husband his long-boned legs and elegant hands.

As she withdrew from us into dementia, her formerly warm personality seemed to gently sink below some frozen surface; it was a long slow loss.

When we went to clean out her apartment in the assisted living facility after her death, I impulsively grabbed a shirt of hers out of the bulging bag going to the Goodwill; a long-sleeved heather gray tee with flecks in it. Not at all my colors or style. The shirt was the kind of thing she might have worn on a quiet afternoon while reading by the window, or gardening among her potted plants. Like her, it was practical, understated in a way that belied its value.

At first, I didn’t think about why I took it from the donation bag. I couldn’t explain it even to myself. The shirt wasn’t sentimental in the way we think about keepsakes. It wasn’t a family heirloom, or a piece of jewelry passed down through generations; it was a plain tee in a color that made my freckled skin look sallow.

But the shirt has become a quiet companion in my daily life. I wear it while washing dishes, writing books, taking long walks on cold afternoons. It’s not a special occasion shirt I wear in public; because it’s not flattering on me, I wear it when I’m alone.

My mother-in-law wasn’t someone who demanded attention or filled up the room with her personality. She was an observer, an appreciator, an introvert whose biggest love was given to her immediate family. That love was expressed in small, practical ways—how she always remembered to send birthday cards, the way she lit up most when the family was gathered together.

Over time, the gray shirt’s begun to show wear. The collar’s fraying, unraveling at the edges. Small stains have appeared: coffee here, sweat there. I wash the shirt carefully, but ghost traces remain of my daily life—as if I share it with her. I’ve thought about setting the shirt aside, retiring it to the back of the closet where it can remain untouched, preserved—but I like wearing it too much.

Grief is messy and complicated; it doesn’t follow a straight line, and it doesn’t come with a roadmap. It can surprise and teach—about love, about memory, and about the ways we carry the people we’ve lost with us.

For me, grief took the form of pilfered gray tee. For someone else, it might be a favorite recipe, a holiday tradition, a voicemail they can’t bring themselves to delete. Grief is as individual as the relationships it stems from, and sometimes, it’s quiet and unassuming, as simple as wearing a piece of clothing until it falls apart.