Story Poem: Pass Over

What to do when you get a gift from the heart. Pass it on.

Pass Over

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 Devin and Dave, owners of the Corral. Devin and

I were talking about the lack of work ethic in young ski bums

today. He wore a jacket that struck my fancy.

Brown leather, soft lining,

cotton cuffs and collar,

ultra comfortable.

On the back,

embroidered in a watery blue,

a horseshoe C and flowing letters spelling

Corral Bar-Café Motel Gallatin Canyon, Montana.

The perfect jacket for an imperfect world. 

Devin had demanded I try it

on when I complimented

him on it and asked

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 his head,

leaned forward, quietly said he wanted to

pass it on. I said I’d trade my black leather 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

killer new coat Devin

had bestowed

upon me.

She said

with disgust,  

you can’t take that.

What? I said, losing my swagger.

She turned toward me. You can’t take his coat.

Why not? He wanted me to. So I did.

It’s his jacket. It’s snowing out.

I know, but he gave it to me!

He has no jacket now.

It’s old, used. His dog

chewed on it. See?

Give it back.

No! 

Yes.

Oh, c’monnn!

It’s a sentimental memory of his dog.

That stopped me. 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 he wore near his heart,

and with winter still coming down from the hills.

Guilt settled in, like cold snow.

Next day, Easter Sunday,  

we rose early to hit the

road back 

home.

First stop,

Corral Bar. Breakfast.

Devin behind the counter in a floury apron.

Sheepish, I gave him his jacket. He shook his head,

said I was a fool, hung it on a hook and went back to work.  

That Easter was the last I saw him.

Cancer tracked him down and

killed him five months later,  

which may be why he

wanted to pass over

his jacket, and

the memory

of his dog.

Pass it on.