The raincoat was a birthday gift the year I turned twelve. It came packaged in a wrapped Wanamaker’s box. She gave it to me after I finished a sandwich of bologna and mustard on Wonder. I didn’t know how she got the box, but I knew the gift wasn’t Wanamaker’s stock. The box was lined with tissue paper — lemonade yellow, sky blue and tulip pink. As my fingers peeled back layers of soft, crinkled paper, hers twisted. I never told her I had been hoping for Jordache jeans (black wash) or a Gloria Vanderbilt sweater (chenille). I knew she spent more than we had. Two weeks prior. I’d been looking for honey, for her tea, and wondered why the coins in her savings jar, a Folger’s coffee canister, no longer rattled.
She watched as I lifted the final sheet of paper. The slicker was folded in a perfect square with its arms crossed. All limbs at attention. Small colorful flowers, daffodils I think, dotted the lime-green base. Garden parties. The kind the kids at school had on their own birthdays and then talked about for another week. Gatherings that prompted small sandwiches with cucumbers and cream cheese. Iced vanilla cakes and fruity drinks with umbrella straws. Hula hoops and radios. That kind of party. That kind of day. A birthday I’d wonder about. Perhaps one day, I may.
She knew green was not my favorite color. And that that flowers would never be my preferred style. Even so, she knew she — I — had to have the jacket. As I unfolded the sleeves, the plastic stuck. I peeled, then pulled. She nodded, then kneeled.
“Thank you,” I said.
“There’s a penny in the pocket. Leave it,” she urged. “And the hood — it’s oversized.”
“It’s perfect — for when it rains.”
“When?” she sighed, then shifted her gaze towards the sky. Her canvas bonnet dropped at my feet. “The rain always comes,” she whispered.
I realized, then, that for her the skies never ceased to threaten. One can flee hate, but forever carry its burden. In the small pockets of air between Here and There, Now and Then, rains simmered. She lived a life of relentless bargaining.
I never wore the slicker. It, and its pocket penny, have lived, safely, on a metal hanger in my closet ever since that day. Through moves of many. Through layers of loss. My closet now full of brand-name denim bought at off-brand stores. The kind that are always busy. Where garden parties are on sale and where consumers seek distraction in the form of deeply discounted collagen, fresh coverings, and bowls with floral prints (5 for the price of 1). I wander aisles and pluck garments like over-ripened fruit. Quick to consume. I avoid the coat section and browse. Unsure what I’m looking for. And I wonder, did she know, all along, what was in store. Mostly, I wander and wonder because it’s free. And I’m me, but also just as much her.
I wonder —
if raincoats if wooden hangers
ever crave sun prefer window seats
if suburban gardens if empty seesaws
understand heat appreciate balance
if swing sets if twin sets
fear gravel favor gingham
if adults in roller skates if toddlers in slickers
understand friction underestimate rain
if honeybees if threats
recognize repellant realize their strength
If James Dean If Jack ever got
danced the waltz a new green Chevy
if heartlands if backstreets
crave city streets curate original beats
if alleys if candles crave
long for open air space to wane
if those who flee hate if grains of sand
ever forget pain understand the concept of time
if stellar nurseries if drunken stupors
smash records smash hope
if celestial beings if tea sandwiches
think about rhyme fear hunger
I wonder —
if the piece of the sun that pulled off the sun’s northern point – that’s right, it did, had finally achieved what it had hoped for or if foreign forces fueled its fury. I wonder — where it might go next. What will it do. When will it chill. How deep is its might. How harried is its plight. Is the space between wonder and worry more, or less, fraught than waiting. Can any of us repel gravity?
I tilt my neck and search amongst skies that no longer recognize me. Will the piece tango with the rains or waltz with the stars. Is it enjoying its newfound freedom (and fame) while dancing in the rain. Or is it discovering news shades of green and envy at parts no longer unknown or wonder at all the parts that remain. I do not know.