The Borrowed Coat, Or, Too Much

She said, "We knew you'd go far,"

a gentle push, a bright, happy star

she painted on my back, I swear,

a heavy thing, always there.

Like the coat, Aunt Carol's old fur,

that scratchy wool, a constant blur

of someone else's life, too big,

too warm for summer, a strange dig.

It smelled of powder, faint and sweet,

a past I couldn't quite meet.

I wore it, though, sometimes, in shame,

just to live up to her name.

It choked me, yes, but still I tried,

to fit the person she had inside

her head, the one I had to be,

not just this awkward, struggling me.