It’s the last day of September—
a cool 54 degrees,
rain on the horizon,
clouds thick in the sky.

Early-morning wonder:
What to wear to work today?
I nibble on oat bites,
sip hot coffee,
a thought moves through:
It’s time for Grandpa Don’s vest.

This is the season
where layers are a must,
and warmth is to be had.

I go into the back closet,
pull it out,
and think about you.
I think about your family.
I think about our family.

I pull on the Roark jeans that fit just right,
my pale pink sweater,
my tattered blue bandana,
and then Grandpa Don’s vest.

Ezra and I match:
bandana babes.
Like mother,
like daughter.

I feel the worn stories this vest carries.

Where has it been?
What has it seen?
Whose shoulders did it warm
on cold Puget Sound nights?

What conversations swirled around it?
What love leaned in,
and lingered in its threads?

When I put it on,
I feel Grandpa Don’s long arms
wrap around me
like a warm hug.

When I arrive at work, within the first ten minutes,
two people say, “I love that vest.”
Another says, “Cute outfit!” just a minute later.

I feel Grandpa Don speaking through it to me,
and a soft whisper tells me,
“Everything’s going to be alright.”
He is with me—
thus I know.