My neighbor held it up

My neighbor held it up

like it might finally speak,

like thirty years

of hanging in a closet

would eventually mean

something.

Maroon. Deep. Almost brown now

on one shoulder—

the side that always faced the window,

the side that learned

what sunlight does

to fabric you're too afraid

to throw away.

Her ex gave it to her.

She said this like it mattered,

like a coat from someone who left

is a different kind of coat,

like the story is attached

to the seams,

like she can't discard

what once meant

I am the kind of person

someone chooses.

The other shoulder is still dark.

Rich. The color it was

when it was new,

when it meant something

to be wrapped

in someone's decision.

But that was before

the choosing went bad.

Before the shoulder

started to fade.

Before she became

the kind of woman

who visits a coat

in her closet

and never wears it.

I didn't tell her

to throw it away.

We just stood there

holding this thing

that used to mean

everything,

that now means

nothing,

that will probably outlast

both of us

still hanging,

still maroon on one side,

still waiting

for someone

to be brave enough

to wear it.