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.
Story Poem: Pass Over
I love that poem. You should have kept it.
When things mean much to you and you give it away? There is something special in that transaction.
I am sorry your Friend died.