When he needed luck he would always wear his Jack Daniels T-shirt. For university exams, his first job interview, making love to her. She’d felt so grown-up, sitting in his kitchen watching him wash up, scrubbing like mad to get rid of the burnt on food singing ‘Purple Rain’ at the top of his voice.
Flicking the tepid washing up water he’d roar with laughter when it landed all over her favourite She-Ra T-shirt. Chasing her around the house, he’d snap his hands like the jaws of a big reptile, yelling “Crocodiles”. Squealing with joy as he rugby tackled her to the ground nuzzling her neck and tickling her ear. It was years before she finally gave up trying to squeeze herself into that top, her favourite.
She hadn’t felt grown-up when his four rugby mates carried him into church. She had wanted to lay the red rubber gloves on the top of his coffin. His mother said no. She wouldn’t let him be buried in his lucky T-shirt either. Mums are like that. She settled for a large posy of yellow marigolds and his best suit. Nothing is easy.