CHRIS'S VEST
“I gave it to him in 2015—a Costco find, humble, useful, its potential for warmth obvious.”
Chris and I met on a hastily arranged blind date, if that’s what you call two strangers accepting last-minute invitations to a mutual friend’s anniversary dinner. We hit it off that evening, and he kept me laughing and feeling loved for nearly 27 years.
He was a CPA who loved the Mets and Broadway show tunes and did a pretty great rendition of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Eternally optimistic. Very smart and very competitive, whether we were doing the New York Times crossword or playing Apples to Apples with our two kids. But also incredibly modest and thoughtful. At night he warmed my side of the bed while I was in the bathroom. Every Sunday he filled my daily pill organizer for the coming week. And as my alarm went off on weekday mornings, he was always right there setting a steaming mug of coffee on my nightstand.
He embraced every one of our kids’ interests and activities, enthusiastically attending our son’s quiz bowls and our daughter’s riding competitions, learning the rules so he could give pointers, offer (mostly unsolicited) advice and provide commentary on the competition. On the sidelines at their soccer games, he called out-of-bounds balls and chatted up neighbors. As often as not, he was wearing this vest.
I gave it to him in 2015—a Costco find, humble, useful, its potential for warmth obvious. He kept it on a hook by the back door, ever at the ready. He’d throw it on to go to the gym or the grocery store. We all reached for it to take out the garbage or the dog. When its zipper broke, he asked me to fix it, and I did.
From the early days of our relationship, I knew Chris had multiple sclerosis, but he was lucky not to experience many relapses, and it never overtook his life. In fact, against the odds, he was able to manage it without medication. So when he was diagnosed with stage 4 small cell lung cancer in August 2021, completely out of the blue, he hoped he’d beat the odds again. Eternally optimistic. We never expected he’d be gone within four months.
The vest now sits folded on a bench in my sewing studio, no longer warmed by Chris’s body or absorbing his scent. Still, these past three years, it has been a longed-for embrace, a solace on cold mornings when the house feels empty and lonely.
He wore the vest on so many of our walks. Our long ones, five miles on weekends, weren’t just for exercise, but also to catch up. We talked about who would drive our daughter to her game, and economic policy during Covid. What to make for Sunday dinner, and Tom Seaver’s career. Moving to the city after retirement. Where to go when we went back to Italy. Why, in Chris’s opinion, Alexander Hamilton was such an icon. I still walk our route, sometimes in the vest. Chris always carried tissues in the pocket in case I had to blow my nose. There’s still one in there, desiccated almost beyond recognition, as so much is barely recognizable these days.
—Erika Kalyvas
Erika Kalyvas, a retired CPA, is a fiber artist who began writing as an expression of grief. This is her first published piece.
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Thank you for sharing Chris' story. I felt an immediate connection. My husband also lived with multiple sclerosis for the 33 years we shared together. He always maintained a positive attitude about everyone and everything. He had a favorite denim jacket that I kept after his passing. From time to time, I put it on just to remember the feel of his arms around me. I'm sure Chris' jacket will be there to comfort you with all your special memories of your life together.
Beautiful piece; "humble, useful, it's potential for warmth obvious." Thank you for sharing it.