Await: Part II

Coatracks are cold, and rigid, and entirely unfriendly, but there is one thing that can be said about them – they are loyal. Except if a sloppy, distracted hand drops you on the floor.

The wool coat was a family favorite. At least, enough to keep it from going to Goodwill. It had lasted three simultaneous generations. By that I mean ten or so years. The neck of it where it rested on the coatrack for the past three of those strained to hold itself together. White cat hair from the cat that died last year clung to it. Brown wool clung desperately to each other, breaking familial wrists upon the edge of a cliff. You could even see through it in some places. At least, here and there along the tree on the back, there was the relief of red blooms, names inscribed in Sharpie that had long ago faded.

Who knows what poetry whispers in the pockets, what tea stains the front, what overeager dog tore the lower button. In case a hand wants to mend the button, or find the whispers of metaphor, the coat hangs on the coatrack by the front door.