Sweat Suit Swap

Sometimes your brain knows something before you do. My dad’s roommate at the Nursing Home was a tall, hulking 6’5″ ex-cop. One day he exited my Dad’s room wearing an extremely small, skin-tight, track suit. My brain knew those were probably my Dad’s clothes, and that my Dad, at 5’8″, was likely wearing the large, flowing attire of an intimidating ex-cop. As I entered, he smiled, in a king-sized sweatsuit on the large throne chair.. Or maybe like a medium-sized bug in a rug. The staff apologized for switching their clothes, crediting a new employee, who had promptly quit. We searched his dresser for better stuff, but most had fallen victim to the dreaded laundry system. They suggested I check Lost and Found in the basement, so I headed down into the bowels, finding bounties of clothes’ racks, but nothing with my Dad’s name. The nurse said anything without a name “written in Sharpie” was up for grabs. So grab I did. There was nice new stuff, and many suburban Boston folks didn’t bother labeling, having “made it” from the poor-house to a Cul-De-Sac. My Dad was soon Best-Dressed in the Nursing Home, and after a few more shopping-sprees downstairs, we sent him off to meet his maker in grand fashion.