Jacket
Loretta saw the jacket draped over the park bench. It was on her usual route from Kline Avenue down Bailey Road and then in through the gates of Clem Park and onto the dirt path that led through the hemlock grove. She looked around. Surely the jacket’s owner had just stepped away, left it there temporarily. But the dirt path showed no evidence of recent activity. Curious, she reached for the jacket, lifted it and held it out, as if she were in a shop, deciding. She liked what she saw: soft blue cotton, silver buttons, white thread on the seams and edges. She slipped it on. Just then, clouds rolled in, and the air changed. The hemlocks groaned in the wind. Loretta buttoned the jacket and pulled up the collar. Grateful for its warmth, she slipped her hands into the soft pockets, and her fingers happened upon a scrap of paper. She pulled it out—just a torn corner with the handwritten word, “Yours,” as if it were the end of a letter—the sign-off before a signature, “Yours,”—the comma hung there, as if waiting. Waiting. She searched through the pockets, hoping for more evidence, something. But that was all—the ragged edge, a piece of some letter—a story she would never know. The wind picked up. The hemlocks swayed, their tips reaching, brushing against the moving clouds. She read the word one last time, “Yours,”—and then let the scrap of paper loose on the wind.
Comments
Evocative and winsome— I liked it. G
Guri 4 September 09
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I love this little story in so many ways, not least for its fruitful use of one of my favorite words: yours.
Jane Kokernak 2 September 09