The Black Coat

This poem is about one of the biggest losses in my life thus far, the loss of my father. For those who have read some of my previous articles, you know that we lost my father to Alzheimer's two years ago. The experience changed my family unimaginably, watching the strongest person we knew suffer in unspeakable ways. The grief was indescribable. The holidays are especially hard for me when I feel his loss most acutely. This poem is a true life experience, set to poetry and is dedicated to my father whose memory stays with me every day. His words, his deeds, his actions guide me.

The Black Coat

Hung in my father’s closet

I never saw it much.

It was wool, full length and conservatively styled.

If my father wore a coat

It was corduroy with a flannel collar,

working in his shop,

raking leaves…

But never wearing the Black Coat

which hung staunchly and solemnly.

Sometimes I saw it hanging there

and wondered who it belonged to…

It couldn’t be my dad’s,

wasn’t really his style.

I came home from school

one dreary, dark day

It was cold

and I shivered as I hurried home

from the bus stop.

I walked into my house

Where the paneled den

was dark and dim,

No lights

I reached to turn them on

And a movement from the couch startled me.

It was my father

Huddled in a corner of the sofa

His face barely visible

He looked so small

And his face, normally blown pink by the sun

Was grey and pale

Above the collar of his coat,

the Black Coat .

His hands were folded in front of him

Very properly.

I noticed for the first time

how wrinkled and time-worn

they had become.

I was dumbstruck,

The silence hurt my ears.

After a long moment,

He raised his head

And said

Without looking at me

or even raising his eyes.

“Your grandmother is dead.”

I sat carefully beside him

And reached for his hand

It was icy cold.

And the sudden realization

my father’s mother was dead

And that my normally stoic father

Looked like a small child

huddled in the Black Coat.

I held his hand for a long time

and neither of us spoke.

After that day, the Black Coat

returned to the closet.

I didn’t see it again

Until one awful October day

When my mother’s huge heart

decided it would break

for the last time.

And her husband of 47 years

put on the Black Coat once again.

It was a long time before I would see it again…

The last time I saw it

Was after the day my sister called

And said, “You need to come.”

I left work immediately and raced to my father’s house

Where my family had gathered.

In a tiny room,

We listened to his labored breath.

Once again I held his hand

And prayed,

although I wasn’t sure what for…

His eyes flew open wide .

He sat straight up in bed,

and reached his hands up

skyward.

“What do you see, Daddy?”

My brother begged.

In an instant,

His eyes closed again

And in a few moments

The room grew silent

Except for the sobs of his family.

Weeks later,

We gathered once again

At my father’s house to begin

The awful task of sorting through his things.

We marveled over every greeting card

That he had saved over the years.

Those signed from my mother, “All my love…”

I opened the closet

Where dress shirts hung,

Some never worn.

He was never much for clothes.

There hanging still and alone

Was the Black Coat.

I took it from the hangar

And buried my nose

In the smell of soap and Old Spice.

I took it outside and sat in the swing

Where he and I had sat

under the purple clematis and roses

Where he held my hand.

We needed no words.

I took the coat

and hung it carefully back In the closet.

I was comforted

knowing my father would never wear

the Black Coat again

But wishing I could hold his hand

just once more..