Dad’s Dungaree Jacket / Abigail Ross, visuals by Maya Seri

Dad’s

Dungaree WORDS Abigail Ross VISUALS Maya Seri Jacket

When you became sick, I wanted to comfort you. I remember just how you looked, sitting in silence on your hospital bed amongst white blankets and propped pillows. You were hooked to a myriad of machines and contraptions and seemed to be yearning for some great escape. I knew this when you peered into my eyes. I imagined you feeling the need to claw out of your own skin—an attempt to crawl out of newly-dying flesh. But nobody could put a name to the pain you felt so instead, you cried when you watched me walk into your room. No one else would ever understand this agony, but I was with you. A mix of light and shade dipped through the window that morning, casting a silhouette of the man I used to call my dad. I didn’t recognize you, and that was one of the last moments I realized I might never see you again.

You tried a smile when I came into the room, eyes brimming with tears. I stood there, unable to conjure up the words to tell you that I was fearful. Your arms wrapped themselves around my shoulders, weak and fragile, and this is when I knew what the very image of illness looked like. You had been in and out of the hospital for years, but I was a frequent visitor. I was waiting for the day you would take your last breath, bracing myself for the near and distant future that I may have had to live without you. When you were gone on treatment, I said prayers. I asked God if you were going to make it. There were so many questions but none of them were answered. They hung thick in the atmosphere, trudging through the unknown. Perhaps, you were losing faith. I saw that you were scared too.

But when times were hard I believed in the remnants you left with me because somehow you knew I would need them someday. I reminisce when you gifted me that jacket on one knee. A dungaree, jean-like material, covered in stains and made of blood, sweat, and tears. The one you purchased at the local thrift store down the street in the eighties. The one with rips and memories and pain. This became some sort of proposal to your oldest

daughter, who bore your name and wore yours as her own. The only family member who came to see you at your worst. But it was time for me to go. I didn’t want to leave you but I had to, and the jacket was all that was left to keep me safe. Fit for a queen, dad’s dungaree jacket became a trophy. A symbol of how far we’ve come. And all of the sudden, somehow I “But when times were became hopeful that you would survive. hard I believed in the There were times when I unscroll your letters and remnants you left with let the words hit me in the stomach. When I opened my me, because somehow suitcases, after settling in during my first semester you knew I would need at college, you were there. Written in the folded arms them someday.” was what you often told me: “Whenever you need a hug from your Da, put on my old jean jacket; and feel my arms around you…” Always & all ways.

Dad’s dungaree jacket has holes that act as a misused hard drive. You are not dead but

unrecognizable still. A near-death experience made me close my eyes and feel that jacket around cold shoulders. I was here and you were there. Miles away from our home, in an all-new world. Your illness tarnished our family for good. But now I wear it as a shield. I am a soldier of your fight, and your dungaree jacket is a token for all that we have been through. I forgive you.

There are times I wear your jacket and think of you. I walk down the street with it hanging over my shoulders again. I consider how dad’s dungaree jacket has aged in history. I see the past, present, and how the future will unfold into oblivion. People give me compliments and sometimes I want to give it back. This gift is too big to hold. I don’t know how I feel, yet you are out living, alive and well. Maybe you have forgotten the way we are always growing into ourselves. Life is long, and this is it. This will forever be dad’s dungaree jacket, a promise to something more.