The Coat

Today I went out for a run, something I began doing regularly before turning 40. I started slow and over the last eight years have continued to only get slower, but pace doesn’t mean much to me anyway. What matters is the relief the act of running generates.

That relief was no different today, even in the cold rain, even beneath the dirty sock of a November sky in Michigan. Even with me lugging around this heavy heart of mine. Even during this viral pandemic that won’t relent. Even while our country is still in the grip of a leader who has no respect, humility or common decency—plus, terrible hair.

I’m spending more time alone these days. I’m coming to terms with that lonely reality. I enjoy running with others. I’ve shared a great deal of laughs and stories and anger and frustration and sadness with other runners. I’ve run alongside them amid downpours, snowstorms, swamp-like humidity. I’ve jogged far outside of my introverted comfort zone, forging new and unexpected friendships across the miles, and for that, I’m grateful.

Yet I also find solace in running with nobody but me. Sometimes I mumble mantras or silly words of encouragement to myself. Sometimes I look up for shreds of reassurance. Sometimes I ruminate on whatever shit I’m struggling with in life. Sometimes I talk to the deer or race the wild turkeys. Sometimes I hone in on the aches and throbs that running has gifted me in my squishy middle age. Sometimes I just listen to the sound of my own breathing.

And sometimes, I'm struck by something seemingly insignificant. Like a forgotten coat.

The coat is nothing exceptional. It’s black, probably light in weight but relatively warm. Would it hang to my waist? I don’t think it has a hood. It resembles a puffer coat, although it’s been here so long it’s lost its puff, along with any pomp and circumstance it ever imagined having. As I jog up to it, I notice it’s soaked through.

How long has it taken up residence on that bench? I bet at least a month or more. Will anybody ever claim it? Has anybody wrapped it around their shoulders? Who ditched it? Was it abandoned on purpose? Is there a winning lottery ticket in one of the pockets? Used Kleenex? Gum? A poignant fortune inside a stale fortune cookie? A syringe? Should I throw COVID-19 precaution to the wind by picking it up and bringing it to a shelter or Goodwill? Why doesn’t somebody toss it? I don’t have any answers.

Two things I do know for certain: winter is coming and people need coats. Somebody will surely need this black, soggy and mysterious one, too. Won’t they?

Perspective is something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. I’m pretty lucky. Pretty damn blessed. I have many coats, much warm clothing, plenty of food, a comfortable, nice-sized shelter, work that I love doing, people I love and who love me. Depression doesn’t always care about haves though. There are days when the darkness hangs on, no matter how bright the sun shines or how sweet the birds sing.

There are days crowned by a clear blue sky that does nothing to ease the pain.  

Despite how I sometimes feel, I keep rising. I keep leaving the past behind, shoving my uncertain future into the horizon and doing whatever I can to remain focused on the present, where the ghosts aren’t quite so steadfast. Where there are wet coats draped over vacant benches waiting for me to keep running by.