What Wears Out First

The zipper caught at the halfway point.

I was already late—

the meeting was in ten minutes,

I'd missed the alarm,

and the jacket that has been

my weather for ten years

suddenly wasn't cooperating.

I stood in the doorway

wiggling it forward, backward,

forward again,

feeling the teeth resist,

feeling the whole mechanism

reject the simple request

to open.

When it finally gave,

something tore.

Not the jacket itself—

the lining, the small nylon layer

that protects the inside,

that keeps the cold

from touching your skin directly.

I forced it the rest of the way down.

The tear is small but visible,

a dark line of separation

where the fabric puckered

and gave up.

Now there's a gap.

Cold air finds it.

I can feel the draft

when I move a certain way,

can feel the thing that was supposed

to hold the world out

has developed a hole.

The jacket still zips.

Still works.

Still looks the same from far away.

But I know what's broken now.

I'll never unknow it.