What Breaks Quietly

I grabbed the jacket this morning

because it was cold,

and the zipper stuck halfway,

wouldn't move, refused

to cooperate with my body.

I stood there pulling at it,

the metal smooth from a decade of use,

worn down, tired,

finally giving up

at the exact moment I needed

it to stay together.

This jacket has been through everything—

every winter, every late-night walk,

every time I needed something

to hold me together,

and now it can't even

do the one thing I'm asking.

It's been loyal.

Followed me through years.

Kept me warm when I needed

to be held,

and now

the zipper is stuck

between where it was

and where I need it to be,

and I'm standing in the cold

with my hand on the pull,

feeling the jacket give up,

feeling the thing that's always worked

finally, quietly, fail.

I don't want to replace it.

I don't want to let it go.

But my hand is on the zipper,

and the zipper isn't moving,

and the jacket is hanging open

around me,

and I'm learning what it means

to lose the thing that held you together

at the exact moment

you need it most.