Monks +1 Jacket of Protection
“Surely that can’t be very comfortable” I commented as she pressed her glitter speckled face against the front of my leather jacket.
“Is this jacket thick?” She asked, looking up with eyes red from recent tears.
“Thick enough to block out the rest of the world for a few minutes?”
“Definitely”, and with that I opened the jacket and pulled her into it, enveloping her small form in the folds of leather as I wrapped my arms around her as she fell into me, shoulders finally succumbing to exhausting, melting around me.
Ahh yes, this would be a salute to my most noble and well worn leather jacket that I found in a thrift shop a lifetime ago. One of a million of the mass produced “biker style” jackets worn by motorcyclists and would be bad boys since Marlin Brando strode out in one on the silver screen. The pockets in mine are shot, lining all but in tatters, but oh how it hugs my shoulders. Deep, canyon like creases lines the arms where it has formed to the shape of me. It’s obsidian black dye now worn pale in places. I’ve worn it nonstop since I found it, rain or shine. While it has served to protect my skin from the occasional motorcycle tumble, I think it has done more to shield the person I take in my arms when they are too scared to stand alone. It is just the right item to drape over the shoulders of a lover when they are caught in a sudden chill and the shoulder loops? Just the right height when a hand needs to cling to you in a quiet moment.
Sure, I suppose I should retire the garment, replace it with something a bit more high tech and better suited to protect me as I ride my motorcycles through these crowded Seattle streets, but nothing I have tried on fits the way this one does. Perhaps that is because none of them have a small, sad girl clinging to you, sharing a quiet moment of comfort while surrounded by the warm, soft embrace that is old, loved leather.