Black is for mourning

Tomorrow, my aunt is burying her husband. Many of you will have seen him at our wedding: a genial, smiling, elderly gentleman (I use the term deliberately) in a cravat. I didn't see him often, but I liked and respected him, and I will miss him.

This morning, I got dressed and then quickly checked myself in the mirror in case of unnoticed awfulness of some sort. Black trousers, black t-shirt, black cardigan. And my habitual blackness, right up against tomorrow's ritual blackness, suddenly felt wrong, so I changed. Purple trousers, brown cardigan, and it feels more comfortable. My sorrow for my aunt's loss has nothing to do with the clothes I wear, and she won't know tomorrow that I haven't worn black today, but my mourning clothes will be more real for me because today I am wearing colour.