Red Coat

Had you lived longer, perhaps 
you might remember, or pretend 
to remember, holding my hand 
at that funeral on the last day
I’d see you alive, the two of us 
meeting in that crowded vestibule
by chance after so many years, 
both of us looking for space
on the coatracks, finding none, 
leaving our coats on, a topcoat 
for me, sweeping red winter coat 
with white scarf for you, how
the usher, not sensing the history 
flowing into that moment, seated us 
shoulder to shoulder in a pew
far at the back. Then you asking if 
I’d hold your hand, and I did, 
feeling all of those lost years 
beginning to pass back and forth 
through our hands as we sat 
looking forward, proper, respectful, 
then stood to sing, fumbling
the hymnal. Would you remember 
even a little of that? But you 
couldn’t remember, as sometimes 
I will, how after the funeral you 
appeared from the back, walking 
away, carefully, lame on your cane 
over ice and a little new snow, 
your white hair thrown over
your shoulders, in that red coat, 
the brightest red anywhere, ever.

Read more from Issue 19.2.