Attic Memories

Attic Memories

Father’s jacket hid in the attic many years; still good at its job, heavy, like the cold, wet, snow-covered tundra it pretended to be. He’d survived in this jacket, lived through the jagged frozen air that sliced open his lungs; made the great, mass retreat across a thousand miles of hell. I can’t image him now, an old, shuffling man in his pajamas, wearing this jacket soaked with ammonia, sweat and piss, hands shoved in its pockets, hands trying to escape frostbite. Russian artillery shells redecorated the landscape with his friends, splashed this jacket with churned up, liquid waves of earth, blood and bone, a raging storm where waves tossed him like a wet towel.

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