There is a coat in the back of my closet I’ve never wore before. It is one of those old, vintage coats: long, black, double-breasted; timeless.
It was cold outside today. Fall is here now. The chill in the air has gotten stronger. The wind blows harder. It made me want to grab the coat and feel its familiar warmth which I’ve known since the time my father wore it, when I was nothing more than a boy and knew nothing of what there was to be known. Many long winters have passed since then, and many of the memories from such a time exist inside me no more. A bygone era, my childhood has become.
I took the coat, against all odds. I put it back: it wouldn’t match. ‘Who cares?’ I told myself, grabbing it back again. But then I didn’t want it to get more worn, so I put it back. ‘Why? Who cares?’ I asked again.
This back and forth went on for only a few more cycles now that I look back, but then it felt like an eternity. It was a battle deep beneath my skin; fought in the bones. There was a call. There was resistance. There was dialogue but, at last, the coat found itself being worn once more, victorious.
I trembled as I put in on. An ‘irrational affair’ I deemed it. ‘It’s just a coat,’ I said. But it’s not: it’s my father’s coat. He wore it when he was my age, and for a brief period of time only. I don’t remember him being particularly fond of it. How it ended up at the back of my closet is a mystery. But it did, and now I am wearing it.
I like it. It’s warm; good enough for the day.
Stylish too, even if old. Perhaps too stylish.
I don’t care: I look like Dad.