I recognized the long white shirt he was wearing when he returned from Shul as the one he wore for his wedding ceremony. Mildy embarrassed that he had left the house like that, I joked that it looked like he was wearing a nightgown.
"Hey listen, when I die this is the shroud I will be buried in. You wear it at your wedding, at Yom Tov and when you die."
My raised hand preceded my words,
"Ok, enough. I don't want to hear about it!"
He grinned at my horror, my discomfort was his entertainment. Why do men love the reaction?
He asked me if I thought he should dry clean it now, 'just in case'.
Having lost my sense of humour completely, I didn't want to know that this was the very thing he would wear when he was dead. I knew if he died before me, I would remember this conversation verbatim. It was one of those moments that you know will mean something big someday. Almost a deja vu of a deja vu.
"Change the subject", I pleaded. You would think a nurse would be better at the whole 'we are all going to be dead someday' notion.
"Why?", he laughed. "What's the big deal? You might as well get used to it. You'll be buried in one too."
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