The Stolen Coat
A story of ruin and rescue
Wes Silverman’s coat had vanished.
A droopy, grayish pea coat, it had seen more years than Wes himself, and he’d seen a few. His sagging flesh and the scattered hairs lingering on his head so matched its fabric he might have been part of it, or it of him. The coat might once have been fine, but now, missing a couple buttons just as its owner missed a few teeth, it spent its declining years in denial. Its outward appearance notwithstanding, it would serve its master to the end and thus be made worthy.
Wes wore this coat, if not proudly then at least without shame, as he tramped about town from end to end in search of a life long since gone. A bit bent, joints creaking, he circulated among the coffee shops and grocers, the hardware and clothing stores, sometimes stopping of an evening to take in a movie but mostly whispering along the streets like a lazy autumn breeze. Homeless folk never found him in their company, but none were sure where he slept. Few were as old as he, and so few if any knew his past. Some said he hailed from the west end of town, once a wealthy neighborhood but now poor, where grass grew long and houses decayed at leisure because their denizens had neither the money nor the skills to fend off entropy.
