The Jacket
You told me this jacket would keep me toasty warm in America. I believed you. After all, you bought it at the company that exported winter wear to North America. The quality had to pass American muster, right? I was busy being starry-eyed with my American Dream, as you stuffed this jacket into my luggage. Meanwhile, I failed to neglect how much you personally adored this jacket and would much rather have it yourself.
What I didn’t tell you — never once did I wear this jacket, not even during the harshest blizzard in the Midwest. You see, this jacket made me stand out like a sore thumb in this college town. I even risked a severe frost bite on my right ear due to my stupidity of trying to conform to the fashion trend.
Over almost 30 years of time span, I dodged your incessant inquiries on this jacket: “Do you feel warm in it like I imagine it would?”, “Do you still have it?” The very last time you mentioned how much you love to have a jacket just like this one was when you’re diagnosed with hypothyroidism and developed sensitivities to cold temperatures.
They say wisdom comes with old age. Now I see and feel a lot more than I once did. How I wish I could personally deliver this jacket to you much earlier. Not only does COVID-19 separate us apart by the Pacific Ocean, but also your dementia. Many nights in solitude, I wonder if you’d still remember this down jacket, or if you’d still recognize me. I can never get a straight answer from Sis, who I suspect is distraught and afraid to apprise me of your current condition.
I’ve had lots of beef with you over the years. Now I come to the realization that sometimes parents are like grown-up kids. Imperfect they may be at times, yet most times they try their best.
Soon, I hope, your American son-in-law and I will fly to you and put this jacket on you.
I love you, Mother.
