My Mother’s Coat
Beth Blackwell
Between the living room and the kitchen
There is a door.
Signatures of my siblings form a road map,
Stretching from top to bottom
Sporadic lines like signposts
Marking the miles of growth.
Hung off the back is my mother’s blue coat.
Dark navy,
With ripped sleeves to wipe my tears
And deep pockets to hold my problems.
It hangs, oversized, just past my knees.
The wool inside gathers in
Irregular
Places.
This home of mine is spacious
And a curious little girl shares it with me.
I remember her,
From a lifetime ago
And her name is scribbled on the door.
She is like me,
Only her hair is blonde
And her nails aren’t bitten.
In many ways she is not me,
Except for the home we share,
Wrapped away in my mother’s blue coat.