That Cardigan (NaPoWriMo #6)

Firehouse Centre for the Arts in Newburyport, MA

That huge green cardigan he always wore
When we went to the grey rundown park, wiggling through tubes
With peeling red paint stuck to squeaky sneakers
Crossing eyes and fingers to the  soundtrack of laughter

That velvety cardigan draped over the shoulder
Carelessly swinging as he sang, adding kicks and swivels under the golden spotlight
Shining off a purple braid, because that was when he liked his hair long

And colourful.

That wiry green cardigan wrapped tightly as he sipped black coffee
(I always have mine with at least two creams and one sugar.)
By a big winter blue window, nodding to the white crash of cymbals
In the only cafe in town that played rock music because it made us feel alive

That cardigan slumped on the floor, under a blinking exit sign.
I picked it up as I left the stage door.
His name on a star still burning in my eyes.

—————————————
So this one kind of went on a whim. Instead of taking nouns, colours, and verbs from a look outside a window,
I jotted them down while at a rehearsal for our annual music show. And the words in the list just fell into place in this casual way. Recently, my father lost his uncle living on the other side of the globe, whom I have only met once (with little memory) and who he hasn’t seen in I suspect almost a decade. The character in the poem in no way resembles this man, but these thoughts must have lingered while I was writing. You realize how much we cherish memories when that is all we have left of a human being.

Thanks for reading,
thebookybunhead