Jackets

short, not perfect, written on a train to save me from boredom.

I know that jacket you had on was my Father’s. You always swear that you picked it up second hand but I know that jacket off by heart. I remember the sheepskin around the cuffs and the cigarette burn on the left side by the zip. I’m not angry at you, I’m angry at my Mother for casting out a dead man’s things. There’s a picture in my Grandmother’s sitting room of my Father wearing that coat in 1986, he’s also wearing her engagement ring on his little finger perhaps you’d like to help yourself to that too.

Everything in your car was bathed in orange. When I was small I used to love the tangerine glow of the street lights on everything in the car, now it gives me a headache. You give me a headache. I can remember you hadn’t stopped talking that night laughing with everyone but me. If we’d taken a photograph that night I can imagine you would be in the foreground. You would be stood there in your stolen coat with your wide grin and your hair tickling your shoulders. I’d be sat on one of the tables in the background with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

In the picture of my Father from 1986 you can see my Mother in the background. She’s sat alone with a tacky leopard print coat wrapped around her, and I’m inside her and she appears to be sharing a cigarette with me. It’s funny because this is the only picture of us all together. It scares me that I’m going to be her one day.

Author's Note

Rough, written on a train.