Make Meaning, Not War

The trenchcoat and I were acquaintances for half a year before our relationship began. We met in December, but it wasn't until May I looked close enough to realize it was purple in color rather than black. We had ended up together at Fanime's Masquerade, after an act of chivalry. The event sucked, but that evening allowed us to become a little closer. It sat folded neatly in my lap, though I did quickly examine the pockets first. They held simple possessions: pencils and pens, receipts, broken crayons, a ketchup packet--and a tarot deck inside a clean sock.

Having completed our evening, I returned it to its home and didn't much think about the deep purple trenchcoat for a week or two.

I held a party and the coat attended, despite it being summer. It was one of the first guests to arrive and I noticed there were a number of wear-and-tear wounds I could darn. So I pulled out the sewing box, retrieved needle, scissors and deep indigo thread. The mending went long into the party and likely attracted a fair amount of gossip, but I was so absorbed I didn't notice.

The loop on the left sleeve was reattached by turning the entire thing inside-out so as to not catch the satin lining. The holes in the armpits vanished in much the same manner. What remained of the tattered left hem was reinforced and rehemmed. The bit to keep the shell attached to the lining, the only one remaining, on the right, was reattached. Finally, the splitting seam on the right sleeve was pulled back together with carefully gauged, even stitches, as they would show; there was no getting around it.

While mending, I discovered splashed spots of pink-terracotta paint. It became a part of the coat after it had assisted in painting a set for a theatre production. It was house paint; it wouldn't come out.

After that, the coat and I could often be found together, especially after the night I had to get it out of its house. We went to a nearby park. It trailed in the tanbark chips, which stuck to it, and became damp with the dew off the grass. It was there when we were parked at a gas station until 5AM, talking though our hardships. It was there when I broke up with my boyfriend, I was there when it fought with its father. It showed up at my work; a pleasant surprise.

In August, it was left in my possession for a social outing, another chivalrous act to keep the coming fall's chill off. The contents of the pockets had changed: the pencils and pens remained, but there were a few packets of sugar and a sage smudge stick with a small abalone shell to accompany the tarot deck. It spent that night by accident, out of mind with its warmth wrapped around me. This became a common occurrence. A few months later, I discovered it had a removable winter lining. It added considerable weight, but wasn't something I objected to.

We were comfortable with each other; distinctive memories mellowed and flowed into one. Recently, one of the buttons on the sleeves broke and was hanging on by a single thread. I pulled out the sewing box again, found needle, scissors and indigo thread. I cut free the spare button, removed the broken one and sewed the new one in place. It had four holes. I crossed, I boxed, I wound and knotted off.

No amount of repair can return the dark purple trenchcoat to its original state, but the wounds of life can be shared and patched with the help of others.