Here is an excerpt from "My Cousin's Clothes," a reflection I wrote Dec. 31, 2008, 16 days after her death:
Karin’s funeral was on a Friday. On Saturday, my mother and I planned to fly back to Buffalo. However, the weather postponed us – as it turned out, by three whole days. We returned to the Faulkner homestead and were greeted, well, like family. That evening, standing in the kitchen, Karin’s mother Nina looked up at me and inquired, “How tall are you?” She wanted me to go through Karin’s clothes – “She won’t be needing them anymore,” she said.
The next day, I found myself standing in the closet of a cousin a barely knew in person, but knew intimately through the written word, her blogs. Even though Karin’s accounts were remarkably detailed, I don’t recall her ever mentioning her favorite brands and clothing styles. I found them uncannily similar to mine (the main difference that many of mine are thrift-store finds): Lands’ End, Coldwater Creek, Talbots, Jones New York, Christopher Bank – solid colors, mostly; a tad more pink than in my closet, and a few more florals; V-necks, like mine; mostly separates (finding a good fit is hard for us tall girls). I took a deep breath and began assessing the shirts, one at a time, looking, considering, sliding each hanger to the left. How on earth would I decide what to take and what to leave? I couldn’t possibly take them all. I didn’t feel I should. But Nina seemed determined that I should take some. The prospect seemed to comfort her. And I certainly wanted to comfort her, if I could, even in this seemingly small way.
Going through Karin’s clothes, I identified with her in a way that I believe – and I hope – will render me forever grateful for each day that enjoy the privilege of living. At 35, Karin was just one year older than I. (Will I have only one more year to live?) She was two inches taller than I. (So why do her gowns fit me to a T? Strange – “like the cousinhood of the traveling dress,” I mused.) “Why am I still here, and not she?” I fairly shouted inside myself. Then the tender line of the French musical Les Miserables came to mind: “Oh my friends, my friends forgive me, That I live and you are gone. There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain goes on and on.”
I proceeded through the shirts, the skirts (I left the trousers – she was two sizes slimmer); the gowns, inexplicably, fit perfectly; and I took just one pair of pajamas, soft ivory cotton with a pastel harp print. Then I looked down and realized: her shoes might fit me (we tall girls have big feet). I slipped on a pair of pink ballet-style Crocs – princess shoes, I thought – and they fit. I nearly gasped. Wearing the garments of a deceased person bore one kind of weightiness. To literally walk in her shoes … it felt like too much! As if, somehow, it would be up to me to carry on with her living. Not her life, of course, but my own, in memory of her … in honor of her life and death … in honor of the fact that I can live and breathe and love and, if I choose, blog! So why wouldn’t I?
Karin’s husband Steve heard my gasp and my declaration: “Oh! Even her shoes fit me!” He stepped into the room, I think to reassure me that he didn’t mind my going through her things. “You sound awfully sentimental about shoes,” he teased, and he added: “Karin was sentimental about everything. I’m not.”
Nor am I, normally. But, stepping into my cousin Karin’s shoes, trying on her clothes, taking them home with me, and embracing my children at the door, I have carried another song in my heart: “I will never be the same again, I can never return, I’ve closed the door, I will walk the path, I will run the race and I will never be the same again … the Glory of God fills my life, and I will never be the same again.”
Here is Karin playing "Silent Night" on the harp: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1naZ-16tBXw.
