It hangs in my closet, your lavender coat, ready to protect you from both mist and wind. Ready for your experienced touch on the fragile zipper should you decide to return.
It hangs in my closet, this precious, ghastly reminder of you. My brothers knew you were gone but asked in frantic haste—the jacket. Did someone remember to bring it home? I did. I’m its guardian now. No one but you will ever wear it again.
It hangs in my closet, this shiny, cheap coat, holding onto your scent long after it should be gone. The fabric rustles when I tug a shirt from a nearby hanger. A whispered sound, echoing your movement, creates a physical hunger for your embrace.
It hangs in my closet, waiting for those nights when I am stripped to the bone and my grief can no longer be contained and I need your echo. I hold the cuff, willing your hand there. Forcing the image to emerge of you, standing at your door, all ready to shop and laugh and stumble through the fog of forgetfulness.
I pull it from my closet. This memento needs a new home. A place where it can rest, like your memory so I can heal. I reach into the pocket and find the last tissue you ever used. Crumpled by a hand that understood death was close by.
It’s dry now and free of the tears you left behind.