Dad's Plaid Coat

Happy birthday Earl B! Hope you're playing 18 up there today!

Wonder what became
of Dad’s plaid
winter coat?

Heavy wool
with gray flannel lining,
black and white tweed
with tiny flecks of red,
mid-thigh length
with dark horn buttons.

He'd stuff his well-worn 
black leather gloves
into the pockets
of that coat
and pop the collar
when it was 
really cold.

Dad, aka Earl B. Who knows when or where, or what the hell he was doing.

When he got home
from work 
he’d throw his coat
over the newel post
at the bottom of the stairs
that led up to the landing
that turned and 
went further up
to the second floor.

I always checked
his pockets
for a piece of gum
or a Tootsie Roll
but usually just found
his pack of Marlboros,
a book of matches, 
and his car keys.

I’d pull his coat
off the banister
and put it on
along with his gloves,
all of it dwarfing
my little boy’s body.

He was a stylish guy
with his plaid coat,
gray flannel slacks,
crisp white shirt,
skinny striped tie,
and shiny thick-soled 
black wingtip shoes.

I vividly recall that coat
with its comforting scent
of dad’s Clubman after shave
mixed with a hint
of cigarette smoke.

I vividly recall that coat 
but can’t remember 
the sound of his voice,
now lost in the fog of time,
20 plus years 
since he passed.

I bet his coat
is tucked away 
in some long-forgotten 
cardboard box,
likely in a deserted closet
in some remote Salvation Army 
storage facility 
or the attic 
of the First Baptist Church
down on Fourth Street,
all taped up 
and covered in dust.

I wonder
if I found that box
and opened it
and found Dad’s coat
if I’d also find his voice?