Author: William Tippie

The day after losing my baby…I walked out this morning and the mist was just beautiful and it seemed that I could see her in every little valley and every little tree. Then, I looked up and I said “Good morning Baby.” And I came in and I thought I could hear her talking to me.

So I wrote this poem called:

Looking at My Darling, Gwen

I see her there—in the morning mists—she tells me: 

Sorry for the mist it’s just me watering my garden heavenly

I’m making us a home here,

just like before

I want you to be pleased,

When you walk through that door

Don’t worry Darling, I’m busy as a bee

Fixing up heaven, just the way you’d want it to be

Your Koi pond is up and running,

My potting shed is built,

The stone steps down to the garden

still have that little, tilt

The lilies are blooming,

Up here they never stop

You see, it never gets too cold

And definitely, never, never too hot

So watching you, Darling,

Looking at my morning mist

Just remember, when you get here

I’ll greet you with your favorite, good-morning kiss

It starts each morning when I go in to choose my clothes for the day; the memories come rushing back.

The blue dress she wore as we recited our pledge to each other and took our vows.

The white slacks and red top she had on when she pretended to hold up a huge, rock outcropping in the Red River Gorge.

The dress she had on when we attended the Woodford Theater Production Of Mice and Men with our Wesley Village friends.

The knee-high dress boots she often wore with skirts in sloppy weather.

The jeans with the cute embroidered back pockets, that made her pretty bottom even prettier.

The kimono, a gift from our Japanese friends who loved to spend time in her garden with the koi pond.

The shorts she wore on Myrtle Beach while shelling with friends.

The bathing suit and flippers she wore while swimming laps at the Y.

The bathing cap that she wore to protect her lovely hair from the dreaded chlorine.

The pajamas, a Christmas gift she wore to preform her “New Jammies” dance.

The ruffled blouse she had on when she first visited the Village Spa for a perm.

The white, spaghetti-strap dress she wore when we visited the Opryland Hotel.

The black and white jacket she wore to dinner for our first visit to the Wesley Village Café.

The black and white, stripped blouse she had on at Churchill hill downs, to watch the horses run.

The blue sweats she lounged in while watching T.V. with Miss Boots, our cat perched firmly on her chest.

The white top and bell bottoms below her bare midriff that got my attention when I first laid eyes on her at Jekyll Island.

These are the memories—some shared, some private—that tell the story of our life together before and after Dementia.

The answer to my own question,

Why—after four years—do I still have “Her Clothes in My Closet”?