© Faye Rayos
There are three compartments of a Jacket:
The longitudinal sockets for arms
-right and left,
The base of the Hood (if any) and,
The outside pockets (if prevalent at all).
Each part bears significance,
Mystery and modest superficiality.
Yet,
The whole of the parts give but one simple definition-
That is to mystify the beholder with a deceitful warmth and comfort
Which plagues both day and night and heat and rain.
For with long sleeves that shadow the hands,
Leave no fingers to trace the wrong undone and the right closed in a fist,
Feeling nothing but the pressure of the fingers in the palm as it
Tightens the grip of the truth of the lines of life mapped out in the palm’s skin.
In the winter, the hands quiver and shake still ungloved,
Left only with the ease of the cloth of the garment’s sleeve.
Numbing the sense of touch,
Unfeeling the sensitivity and the prick of the ice on each fingertip,
That once weave and touched lives with joyful memories.
But only memories are to be left,
And these that are to be left are left unspoken, undermined and still,
Just memories.
Virtue still holds true in the pulse felt on the wrist.
The pulse is virtue to the beheld himself the longing to be set free and be true.
‘tis a disappointing feat to be lost in himself for trust or no trust,
He cannot decide.
And what of rain which singlets of water gently soothes in the piercing of dew through skin?
It is the garment’s mantle which now then shields our head, particularly our face,
Our face is roofed over by the shade of the hood,
In its best effort to enclose the cold sighing and tears of nature.
Same happens through with Day,
As sunlight encapsulates our entirety.
Withering the natural color of our skin or discoloring what is to be what was.
True Enough,
The hood,
hides our senses,
It blinds, it deafens, it nulls.
So who is to say what is true?
When one piece of garment trusted for protection,
Could break so much of its duty and loyalty in the eyes of the beheld and beholder?
When it does nothing but deceive?
What does it mean to be deceived anyway?
When what you thought was protection could all just be burnt or ripped or faded in time?
Will you pick up the patches and create a new suit?
Or will you use what is left behind to make a rag?
Soggy, old, dirty, used.
Beneath it all,
What matters most is that the garment knows of what it’s doing.
It does not leave its master, it is quite the contrary actually.
It is the master-beheld and beholder- that drags it around,
Washes it until it withers its color,
Testing its patience and strength by tugging and pulling it to fit our frames.
Still, who is to say what is truly right?
None of us are really able.
But, a thought must ponder for all,
As long as the Jacket has an opening and closing,
it doesn’t matter….
What it looks like,
How it is worn,
or,
When it is worn.
What matters most is that it is kept.
Used well,
Understood,
Loved,
Appreciated.
And in cases that the jacket is tightly embraced in our bodice,
As long as there’s a zipper that holds it in,
We can be assured that it will never be forever dark, empty, and closed.
And the side pockets?
Well let’s just say,
If the hands get tired of the heat and cold,
Dust and rain,
The side pockets will always be there to offer its comfort,
And serve as a catcher to its downfall.
