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[musingsofamadwoman]

Current WIP for my creative writing class! Titled 'Baptized in a sea of Denim'

Despite being raised in a strict, god-fearing Baptist household, she had never been a

particularly religious person. The jacket, however, changed this. It was like a baptism, offering

her solace and salvation rivaled only by the good Lord himself.

Wrecked with grief, she sat in her grandfather's closet. Her hand ran along each article of

clothing, feeling the rough scratch of denim opposite the smooth, freshly ironed button-downs

never to be worn again. Tears poured down her face, and mascara caked around her eyes as she

sat there, hoping the fabrics all around her would muffle the sobs. She cried so violently that it

felt like grief itself would cease to exist after she left that closet, for she'd consumed it all. His

brown work boots were to her left, perfectly scuffed. Each mark told a story of the places he'd

been, the people he'd met, the grass he'd cut, and the world he loved but left behind. She didn't

know where to go from here. The feeling of the carpet on her bare feet was comforting. It

grounded her, but it also served as a reminder that after she left her grief-stricken cave, no one

would be back to feel the same carpet. The tan walls offered her protection like a princess

waiting in a far-off tower for her knight in shining armor, but there was no knight and no one to

save her. She knew the oak door would remain shut until it was time to clean the closet. She

wondered how the closet itself would feel about all this. She'd always had an overactive

imagination, made worse by the immense waves of sadness inside her. Would the closet be sad ormaybe happy to have a break finally? Her grandfather was so excited by life that he would slam

the closet door open in all his eagerness to begin a new day, thus leaving a handle-size permanent

dent in the wall. She figured the closet would appreciate a little break, but when it realized that

the over-excited man would never return, she secretly hoped the closet would grieve, just so that

even for a little bit, she could have something else that felt her pain. Again, she didn't know

where to go from here, but then she felt it. She hadn't put all the pieces together yet, but at that

moment, her hands knew what she needed. They felt the scratch of the denim, the smoothness of

the buttons, the stiffness of the collar, the depth of each pocket, and then she knew. This jacket,

his jacket, would be hers. It would be her savior.

The jacket is, simply put, basic. Standard Levi's brand dark denim with no patches or

color, regular dull buttons, nothing inherently special about this piece of clothing, but that didn't

matter to her. Harnessing every ounce of energy left in her body and wiping her tears away, she

stood up. Once up, she took the jacket off its white plastic hanger, the feeling of denim never

leaving her hands. She put the jacket on, slipping her arms through each sleeve and settling it on

her shoulders. Her eyes closed as the jacket engulfed her, and like water, she was submerged in

denim. It was as if when she opened her eyes, she would be a new woman, cleansed and free

from sin. She would be saved. She paused to smell the air around her, and when hit with the stale

smell of cigarettes and old books, she burst into tears once more. Wearing the jacket was the

closest thing she had felt to God since her baptism some years ago. It didn’t make sense but, in

her grief, she had abandoned her disdain for religion, instead favoring faith over logic.

She heard a voice. The slow, sweet drawl of her grandmother's Carolina accent cut

straight through the grief and brought her back to reality. Her grandmother called her name, and

it was like Jesus himself had come down from heaven with an escort of his finest angels. Shecould feel her sadness melting away, but her swollen eyes and blotchy red skin told a different

story. Still wearing the jacket, she took a deep breath and opened the door to greet her

grandmother. Their eyes met first, but then her grandmother lowered her gaze, dumbfounded by

the sight of her late husband's jacket, which she hadn't thought about in 40 years, on her

granddaughter's shoulders. The five stages of grief washed over her face, and they made eye

contact again. No words were exchanged, but with a simple nod of her grandmother's head, the

jacket had a new owner and, by proxy, a saved soul