The Coat
Tell me the story, she said.
I grabbed a mosquito out of the air.
Tell me the story, she said. Of the coat.
Beetles nestled between her toes. Shards of orange rinds, like beached canoes, tilted up from the
soil.
It was a coat, I began.
Fingerprints of light smudged on her skirt.
It was a coat that belonged to my father, I said. My grandfather before that. My great
grandfather before that.
Her dress strap slipped over her shoulder. In my palm a Rorschach of mosquito and blood.
There was always the coat, I said. My father wore it to church, grocery shopping, to bed. When
he left it was still there in his shape, in his rocking chair, waiting.
What happened then, she said.
I put on the coat, I said.
Tell me the story, she said.
This is the story, I said. I put on the coat. It was heavy, like putting on a whole world. When I
took it off it sagged in the chair, having lost its shape.
What happened then, she said.
Days, I said. Days happened, and the coat remained in the chair, and we left the television on.
We grew used to the coat. Brother sent it letters from Norfolk. Mother would set a place for it at
the dinner table. Then one day, it stood up.
What happened next, she said.
It stood up and walked out of the house, I said. I watched it through the window, watched it walk
into this forest, watched it wind between the birch trees.
Did you follow it? she said.
I rubbed my palms together, the mosquito-corpse rolled into small, soft pebbles in my palms. She
lifted her head, and her second dress strap slid to her elbow.
We were afraid, I said. My brother’s letters kept arriving, and I could only pretend I was the coat.
What happened then, she said.
The war happened, I said. The war was always happening then, though we pretended it wasn’t.
What happened, she said.
Fingerprints on her skirt. She pulled her arms through her dress straps, and the dress collapsed
on her lap, revealing her breasts. A wasp alighted on collarbone.
We were afraid, I said. We were afraid, so we decided to hunt the coat. This went on for some
time. For months there wasn’t a single letter.
Did you find it, she said.
I found it, I said. Here, slumped against that oak, as if tired. Tired from running or tired from
waiting, I couldn’t say.
She lifted her hand to the wasp. The wasp crawled onto her thumb.
It got away, she said.
The coat fled, I said. It fled, its tails flapping as it ran through the forest.
What happened then, she said.
I watched it go, I said.
What happened, she said, staring up at me. The wasp flew into the light.
That’s the story, I said. I turned my palms toward her, showing her my wrists.
She stood up, her dress a linen spotlight pooled on the forest floor. I could only pretend I was the
coat. Silently she put me on, pulling her arms through my arms, lifting the hood of my chin over
her head.
What happened then, she said. She started walking.
That’s the story, I said.
That’s the story, she agreed.
Todd Dillard received his MFA in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including Best New Poets and a recent anthology of flash fiction Some Like it Fast. He is the recipient of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators 2012 runner-up prize in the Contemporary Novel category, and he has published three books of poems for children:Where the Windwalk Begins, The Loud and Empty House, and All the Butts. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and no cats.
Image: hissingteakettle via flickr
