Gone and now cremated,
I wait for my sister
to meet me at his now-
once bungalow. Searching
through the remains,
sifting among clothes
he left behind,
I put on a jacket
hanging in the closet,
turn toward the mirror
on an opposing wall.
I see gray hair and a beard,
half a century old,
but below that,
the jacket swallows
the child: its shoulders end
at my biceps; the cuffs
of each sleeve brush
against my knuckles.
Blushing, I remove the coat,
turn back to the closet, and
return it to its rightful place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The things owned by a lost loved one carry more than memories, the hidden meanings brought about by the jacket convey your deep affection and tribute to your Dad. Touching and honest write.