Handkerchiefs

by Nicole Cushman

(Letter-to-the-editor originally published in the Wall Street Journal)

What a pleasure to read Stuart Green’s essay “In Praise of the Ever-Practical Handkerchief” (Review, March 2). While hankies might seem old-fashioned to Mr. Green’s 20-something sons, they were hardly gauche to my 45-year-old husband. Despite his relatively casual daily dress of bluejeans, collared shirt and dress shoes, Luke rarely left home without a hankie in his back pocket. I benefited from his habit on numerous occasions, soiling hankie after hankie with my mascara at weddings and in darkened movie theaters. The day after Luke died, I hesitantly walked through the door at a gathering of nearly 100 loved ones, gripping my mom’s arm to steady me. When I locked eyes with our friend Carl, he approached and silently handed me a pristine white handkerchief; I knew then I would make it through that evening.

In the six months since becoming a widow, I have stopped wearing eye makeup and started carrying Luke’s hankies everywhere I go. He and I often took pride in thwarting gendered expectations, and I privately delight in the raised eyebrows of onlookers when I extract a handkerchief from my purse. I know someday I’ll be brave enough to apply mascara again but, until then, I take comfort in knowing I carry a piece of Luke with me to help dry my tears.