The Old Blog in the Desert

I was at the Goodwill downtown, killing time, wandering aisles with no real intention of buying anything, just letting the past tap me on the shoulder when it felt like it.

I was shuffling past a rack of oversized hoodies and flannel shirts when the room suddenly tilted. There it was, an olive drab M-65 field jacket.

The zipper was still busted, stuck halfway up as it had been for as long as I could remember. The right cuff was chewed up and frayed, threads hanging loose like tired fingers, and across the breast pocket was a sticker that read: $14.99.

My chest tightened. I reached out without thinking, my hand trembling.

The second my fingers touched that rough canvas, the fluorescent lights disappeared. I wasn’t an old man anymore.

I was nineteen, standing on red dirt that stained everything it touched. The air was so thick with humidity you felt like you could wring it out of your shirt.

I pulled the jacket off the rack. It felt heavier than it should have, heavier than memory ever admits.

I turned it inside out, looking for something I hoped I wouldn’t find. My breath caught anyway as I saw my name.