You took my grandfather’s coat, the smell of his tobacco on the collar and the velvet patch on the elbow like a quilt square or piece of Ma’s gown. You were tall; the sleeves that brushed my cheeks when Grandfather lifted me above his head revealed your slender forearms, not muscled like a fusilier. Your wrists dangled, smoother than his, unaccustomed to dirt.
You took his best church shirt as you tossed yours to the ground, shaking out sleeves which my grandmother had crossed and folded like a sermon. If she saw how casually you balled up and discarded yours, she’d have risen from the grave and demanded it back. “Everything you need to know lies in a man’s actions,” she told you, “Not in his words.”
You took his boots, last bent and re heeled, polished to the shine of your pupils when you first dared mine to notice you, the warmth of your breath at my ear as uncertain as your promise. “They pinch my toes,” you complained as you pushed your feet into new ownership. “They’re all we have,” I told you, and you muttered how I was resourceful. You were older. I was just a girl.
You took his breeches, forced your legs into their blue wool and tapped your feet with impatience, while I imagined your hand to my spine. Other girls would hope for a dance, but I’d pirouette because you were mine. You took his hat and wore it like a salute.
I took the now empty chest, lay down inside it when the truth emerged. The creak of its hinges shut like a coffin. I took the musket balls from your pocket and held them, grey and sightless, like a dead man’s eyes.
Emma Phillips lives by the M5 in Devon, which sometimes lures her away in search of adventure. She is currently Writer-in-Residence at Tiverton Museum and can often be found between the Wool Trade Gallery and the Stocks.
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