Poem: Passover
Eight years ago last night, the owner of the Corral Bar in Montana passed me a gift. Little did I know.
Passover
Night before Easter
and all through the bar,
creatures were stirring drinks,
swapping tales, and tossing down
shots by the handful, many of them bought
by Devon and Dave, owners of the Corral. Devon and
I were discussing the lack of work ethic in young ski bums
today. He wore a jacket that struck my fancy.
Sumptuous leather, soft lining,
cotton cuffs and collar,
ultra comfortable.
On the back,
embroidered in
a light aqua blue, was a
horseshoe C and flowing letters spelling
Corral Bar-Café Motel, Gallatin Canyon, Montana.
The perfect jacket for an imperfect world.
Devon had demanded I try it on
when I complimented him
on it and inquired
if any were
for sale.
Sorry,
his was
the last he said
as he showed where
his dog had gnawed on it.
It fit to a T. I’d wear this everywhere
I told him, even to bed.
Take it, he said.
I laughed.
He didn’t.
I said no.
He said yes.
I said no, but thanks.
He said I want you to have it.
I said I can’t. He nodded, smiled,
leaned forward, quietly said he wanted to
pass it on. I said I’d trade my brown suede jacket for it.
Nope, didn’t want mine. Just wanted me to take his
and wear it out. So I took it. Drove home,
bolted upstairs and showed wife the
blessed new coat Devon
had bestowed
upon me.
She said
with a frown,
“You can’t take that.”
“What?” I said, losing my swagger.
She pointed at the coat. “You can’t take this.”
“Why not? He wanted me to. I swear!”
“It’s his jacket. It’s snowing out.”
“I know, but he gave it to me!”
“He has no jacket now.”
“But it’s old, used,
his dog chewed
on it. Look!”
“Give it back.”
“No way!”
“Yes.”
“Oh, c’monnn!”
“You have to. It has
sentimental value, a memory of his dog.”
That was a low blow. She knows how I love dogs.
“You won’t be happy wearing it,” she said.
Dammit, she was right. I’d never
hear the end of it.
I’d taken his
favorite
coat,
not just a coat,
a memento of his beloved
dog that had warmed his heart,
and with winter still coming down from the hills.
Guilt settled in, like snow falling on ashes.
Next day, Easter Sunday,
we rose early to hit
the road back
home.
First stop,
Corral Bar Cafe, breakfast,
Devon behind the counter in floury apron.
Sheepish, I passed back his jacket. He shook his head,
said I was a fool, hung it on a hook and went on cooking.
That Easter morn was the last I saw Devon.
Four months later he passed over.
Cancer tracked him down.
Only a few knew,
maybe Lulu,
our dog who slept
by the jacket all night.
“Passover” is from Goodbye Yellowstone Road, a previous High Plains Book Award selection, available at various online sources.
has a rhythm. nice
Thanks, Mike! If you ever get back that way, make sure you hit the Corral. Classic Montana bar.