Grandpa's Denim Jacket

A poem I wrote a few years ago after cleaning out my grandma's cabin.

 

Grandpa’s Denim Jacket

 

Cleaning out Grandma’s cabin

Revealed many things that none of us would

Have found, until much, much later.

Ancient comic books, old Christmas

Decorations, an Odyssey video game console,

And Grandpa’s denim jacket.

 

He died when I was seven, of

Lung cancer, from smoking too much.

And, after he died, most of his stuff was

Put away in the cabins outside the house,

Or thrown away for lack of someone to

Use them, such as his bullet making

Supplies, the truck and his metal shop,

And, of course, his denim jacket.

 

I snatched it right up, along with the

Book of the family tree, and an Agatha

Christie novel that happened to catch my eye.

I carried them into the house, blinking

Furiously, determined NOT to cry over it,

It was only a denim jacket, but it had so many memories.

 

Grandpa always wore a denim jacket, right

Up to the end when the hospital bed took up

The sewing room at the back of the house.

A denim jacket, a flannel shirt and a white

Stetson hat completed the ensemble—he was

Almost never seen without it.  I picked it up

Today, knowing that it was probably the only

Tangible thing I had, aside from pictures, that

Would remind me of my Grandpa.  I wear it now,

Remembering playing ball on the stairs, cleaning

Dad’s shop, going out for cigarettes, puttering

Around in the metal shop and drinking coffee

In the little green tea set from upstairs.

 

Twelve whole years of memories, come

Flooding back and I think it’s time to revisit

Them.  Maybe I’ll buy some flowers and go

To his grave, clean it up a bit, fix up the spot

Where the elk antlers used to be, and just sit,

Wrapped up in the denim jacket, a final embrace,

From my Grandpa.