How I Became a Homeless Fashionista

I didn’t stop shopping when my 47-year-old son committed suicide last year,

I started shopping for homeless clients.

I spent money I would have given him for his birthday,

Gas for his car,

Car insurance,

Traffic tickets,

Bail,

Judgments against him,

Behavior counselors, defense attorneys, court fines,

Rent he skipped out on.

I didn’t discuss my son’s suicide.

I talked about him as if he were still here.

I talked about his accomplishments

Not his failures.

I didn’t tell anyone I was shopping for the homeless, I didn’t want feedback.

I wasn’t buying for my dead son; I was buying for the homeless center, where he lived

On and off.

Shopping for the homeless filled the hole in my heart

I goggled “Homeless Fashion Chic”

“ It girls”

“Gypsy Mentality”

“Hot New things”

I bought neutral classics at thrift stores for ten cents on the dollar:

Understated,

Oversized tee shirts with graphic designs, rock concert logos, exotic locations, designer labels

Sweatpants,

Levis

Leggings

Floppy jackets

High-end sneakers.

Pajama bottoms, hats,

Creative Unisex Street wear,

Creative expression.

Everything almost like new, washed. dried in the sun and

Neatly folded.

I allowed homeless clients to

Dress with polish and flare, elevate their self-esteem.

I bought packages of new underwear and socks .

I packed everything in cardboard boxes (not black garbage bags). I dropped off anonymously.

I said adios to my son who left this world and hola to the sons and daughters who still needed mothering.

I filled the hole in my heart.