worn things

When I was in my earlier teens, I used to borrow my dad’s clothes to add to my vintage/grunge clothing collection. Needless to say I was sort of a tomboy, but my dad has this incredible 70s wardrobe of stuff he no longer fit in. Clothes, that worn by me were still baggy, but somehow worked well with the resurgence of pre-emo state Leylabot. The shoulders were always too big, the shirts always a tad too long, but more or less, I could wear his jackets and striped button down shirts.

One particular jacket was this caramel colored , part suede thing. It was very fitted, and I wondered how my dad could ever fit in it himself. It meshed well with me, and I rarely went out without it. The color went well against my dark skin and indigo denim blue jeans. I got a lot of compliments on it, and people even offered to buy it from me. Of course I refused.

When I’d come home from school, my dad would see it and laugh. When I went out and smoked cigarettes, I’d feel guilty if I made the jacket smell. I wasn’t aware of dry cleaning, and I knew I couldn’t just toss the thing into the washing machine, but suede holds on to the ashtray stink quite well. Over the years the zipper eventually failed, and due to my laziness, and more recent adornment of black, I wore the jacket less.

Finally, years later I was going through my things, moving yet again, and found the jacket deep inside my closet. I took it, and decided to offer it to the one person I thought both looked good in it, and would really appreciate it, my best high school friend George.

I was talking about it to my mom, after I had given it away, and she thought it looked good on George as well. George was the tall skinny type who looked great in anything vintage. And he always respected my father, so I thought it suiting he get the jacket.

“I remember when that jacket was brand new, we bought it on one of our many trips to Europe. I also remember your father coming home in it, and how I never wanted to see it again.”

“Coming home? From work?”

“I wish, he came home from prison in it. That and a fully grown beard. He wore that in that filthy prison for over 9 months.”

My father, along with his colleague and best friend, were imprisoned during the height of the revolution. They had decided that it was time to leave their own country, after witnessing the revolution first hand changing the land they grew up in . Of course they couldn’t just leave, due to the lockdown of the borders, and nationwide mandate that no one was allowed to leave . They knew they would have to figure out another path for their families. They began to plan a trip to Pakistan, on foot, where they could each go and fetch the rest of their families visas externally from Iran. People talked though, and before the plan was even executed, my father and his best friend got arrested right before my mother’s eyes.

Nine long months of prison, nine worrying months for my family. No change of clothes were given to them, only a blind fold to be worn the entire time almost. How the hell my father endured that, I still find a mystery. Today he’s so peaceful, perhaps not totally happy about his life, but I detect no post traumatic sentiments of nightmares of any sort.

I suppose some things are just too worn to talk about anymore.