NY missive no 153 - Thoughts on open toes at a funeral

I’ve started reading Edwidge Dandicat’s “The Art of Death: Writing the Final Story”. Dandicat says she wishes that she had talked to her mother about what she wanted said at her funeral. “I suppose she might have mentioned something on her cassette if had been that important to her,” she writes, referring to a cassette her mother recorded soon before she died. “After all, she told me what kind of shoes I should wear to her wake. (No open toes).”

Aaghh! No open toes! That set off a whole spiral of thoughts on my subway commute. I wore open toes to Mum’s funeral! I remember on the day considering if that was ok. Not least because I have terrible toes (from Dad), and because bare toes meant bare legs too, and Mum would often comment when she saw us on Skype in Summer in sleeveless tops or a sleeveless dress – her in London and us in sweltering NYC - “it must be very hot there today”, with a hint of disapproval at the display of flesh, or was that disapproval only in my mind, drawing on memories of body-conscious-teenagerhood? But! She would have loved the orange nail polish I had on. The New York daughter standing up there at the funeral, with the New York-painted toe nails. No, just, daughter. The black shoes I had would look weird with tights underneath, and it was a hot day, and she would, we knew, have wanted colors whenever the time came, certainly not everyone in black.