I own a green coat
I own a green coat.
It's not perfect, but it's mine and it does it's job just fine.
I had to sew the pockets the first week I used it. They were ripped and all my belongins slipped out through the holes. I nearlly lost my wallet once.
But since then it's been working smoothly.
It's a quirky little coat. Once, in fashion, now... Not. Most of the times it would appear as an old green rag. Maybe that's the fault of it's faded color. I think it would be right to describe it as a forlorn coat, at least by the looks of it. And every surface and situation it has been involved in. Ah, but at the end of the day I hang it up with infinite care.
I put it on when September reaches its end, or a little bit far ahead, if it's a warm year. And I don't take it off until the end of May. It protects me from the cold, from the wind and from the rain. It would protect me against the snow if we were to have snow here.
It has a detachable wool-like lining. I put it aside until the cold arrives. It goes back on it's place by the end of November and comes off several times, until it's detached definitely by midFebruary. It's cold here, but we grow used to it, and there's just a limit to the warmth that we can tolerate on our garments. Bones need to know what humid cold feels like. It brands them.
It rains nearlly all year round, and umbrellas always break and deceive you. But my green coat can shield you from light rain, and you wouldn't even realize that it's actually wet, for it keeps you dry on the inside. Then, when it downpoors, that faithful old rag simply soaks all the water in, and you and it become one under the universal deluge. And then you hang it up on the coat hanger just to find out, when the study session is over, that it feels very heavy and terribly cold on your back, and you have to carry that astray soul back home on your shoulders. Alas, he's only human.
When that happens, if you can't give it a proper drying, it will reek for days, a bad, stifling smell of humidity. One of the infinite versions of all the humid smells you can find in our land. My poor green coat is like anyone else: he also enjoys cleanliness. He's just waiting for his well-earned wash, he demands it. And he's got a right to do so.
We are all couped up now, quarantined. My green coat is too. And it, he, and I, miss spending eight straight months together, stumbling through the wet stones of the city and sitting in all those filthy spots we sometimes choose to pass the time at.
He's been talking for weeks with the other jackets. They do know how to keep each other entertained.
But I know he misses me, and I, too, miss him.
It's not perfect, but it's mine and it does it's job just fine.
I had to sew the pockets the first week I used it. They were ripped and all my belongins slipped out through the holes. I nearlly lost my wallet once.
But since then it's been working smoothly.
It's a quirky little coat. Once, in fashion, now... Not. Most of the times it would appear as an old green rag. Maybe that's the fault of it's faded color. I think it would be right to describe it as a forlorn coat, at least by the looks of it. And every surface and situation it has been involved in. Ah, but at the end of the day I hang it up with infinite care.
I put it on when September reaches its end, or a little bit far ahead, if it's a warm year. And I don't take it off until the end of May. It protects me from the cold, from the wind and from the rain. It would protect me against the snow if we were to have snow here.
It has a detachable wool-like lining. I put it aside until the cold arrives. It goes back on it's place by the end of November and comes off several times, until it's detached definitely by midFebruary. It's cold here, but we grow used to it, and there's just a limit to the warmth that we can tolerate on our garments. Bones need to know what humid cold feels like. It brands them.
It rains nearlly all year round, and umbrellas always break and deceive you. But my green coat can shield you from light rain, and you wouldn't even realize that it's actually wet, for it keeps you dry on the inside. Then, when it downpoors, that faithful old rag simply soaks all the water in, and you and it become one under the universal deluge. And then you hang it up on the coat hanger just to find out, when the study session is over, that it feels very heavy and terribly cold on your back, and you have to carry that astray soul back home on your shoulders. Alas, he's only human.
When that happens, if you can't give it a proper drying, it will reek for days, a bad, stifling smell of humidity. One of the infinite versions of all the humid smells you can find in our land. My poor green coat is like anyone else: he also enjoys cleanliness. He's just waiting for his well-earned wash, he demands it. And he's got a right to do so.
We are all couped up now, quarantined. My green coat is too. And it, he, and I, miss spending eight straight months together, stumbling through the wet stones of the city and sitting in all those filthy spots we sometimes choose to pass the time at.
He's been talking for weeks with the other jackets. They do know how to keep each other entertained.
But I know he misses me, and I, too, miss him.
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