Jacket
I have a jacket. Before you say anything, because I know what you're thinking. "Oh, she has a jacket, how unoriginal." Unlike Mr. Soto I have some very pleasant memories of my jacket. For example, one day I... Well, perhaps I should start at the beginning.
School, the bane of every teenager's existence. The horrid prospect was dimmed by the wonderful present I had received that weekend. Coming off the bus early one December morning I was dressed in my signature T-shirt and jeans, with a little something extra keeping the frosted air off my arms. My hair was a mess, my shoes were dirty, but I had something new. A navy blue jacket bought from, of course, Old Navy. Well, I felt special. It had well defined cuffs, and a standup collar, it looked like something out of the old army days. It was my pride and joy and no one, not even the jerks that ruined every happy thought I had about school could ruin that. The jacket seemed to announce my presence, it wasn't bold, it wasn't fancy, but it was mine. It seemed to fit with everything; it added class to a T-shirt and could make a bride's dress look casual. It was anything and everything. It lost buttons, I still loved it. It lost color and luster as the days trickled by. I refused to wash it. To sumo wrestlers washing their wrestling garments meant washing out the luck, the jacket was the same for me. It was losing its beauty but it still seemed to shiver with pleasure when I donned it and went about my business. It was an old friend. It had the power to give me ideas for my writing, or art, it was magical. But it was broken, there weren't rips, just threads and buttons missing, the buttons were easy to retrieve, but the threads that connected them to the material were gone. My grandmother came into the office one day while I was doing homework.
"You know, that jacket of yours is looking pretty bad. A wash once in awhile wouldn't kill it." She spoke in that tone of voice that seemed to say, "I'm going to go wash it now, deal with it." My eyes widened in utter disbelief. But, what of my luck? All the good stuff that happened in school happened in that jacket. It was my friend; a washing machine seemed like a horrible monster with a swirling vortex of water for a mouth. To imagine my poor jacket, most likely horrified, getting battered and bruised by the holed metal sides. The swirling water would smother and perhaps even drown my beautiful jacket. This was of course nonsense; jackets can't drown, because they don't breath. Unfortunately at this point I couldn't care less.
"I'll wash it and fix those missing buttons; it'll look like new again." I continued to gawk, she wanted to drown my poor jacket, and then put it in that furnace mouthed dryer. And afterwards she wanted to stab the poor thing through with a needle. A needle! This was too much, I opened my mouth to protest but she had already left, taking my jacket with her. After dinner I saw her walk it to its death sentence, I couldn't bare to look. I heard the soulless beep of the machine trill through out the house, I couldn't bear to listen. After the monstrous washing machine stopped the rumble of the dryer began to sound off. That night I had nightmares, what if I never got it back? What if my grandmother accidentally bleached it from navy to baby blue? What if? What if? What if?
It took two weeks, for it to be done. Those weeks were torture. It was the second to last day of school, I needed it for tomorrow. I worried all the way home, and worried in my sleep. The next morning I opened my eyes to find something on top of my dresser. It was navy blue, with well defined cuffs, and a stand up collar. I looked and looked, it was different somehow. I stroked the fabric; the buttons had been replaced on the opening and cuffs. The material was clean and the soft aroma of flowery detergent wafted from the folds. I gasped aloud, it was new again. Would it still want me, would it feel the same? I put it on, and was welcomed by the embrace of an old friend.
This is something I wrote for one of my classes. The Mr. Soto mentioned above is the poet Garry Soto. He wrote a story about a jacket his mother had gotten him and how much he hated it. I suppose its different for girls. Anyway, if you liked it feel free to comment below. Constructive Critisisms and comments are welcome!
