Fit For a Scarecrow
By: Loukia Borrell
Unfortunately, Literary Magazine
August 2022
I never found your brown corduroy coat. It had a
quilted, lime green lining. We think you wore it
to the hospital. By the time we got there, they had
you hooked up to everything and you were stiff
with a tube down your throat. The big doctor told
me you were going to die as soon as those machines
were switched off, so I told him to do it. Now’s fine.
We sat on a rubbery sofa in your hospital room and listened
to the monitor beeping, fading and then stopping.
It took 25 minutes. I felt the hole in my
stomach right away and got up to massage your
toes and kiss you goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye.
I was so mean to you when I was younger, goodbye.
I wish I had your coat. I looked for it everywhere.
At the house. In your car. At the hospital. I didn’t
bother to ask mom because she was still waiting
for you to come back with fried chicken for dinner.
But that coat, you know? I could use the black
Izod, instead. Put you together again, six feet tall,
as a scarecrow in our garden, and from the sky you
will see yourself wearing that raincoat, arms
outstretched, reaching toward the Sugar Moon.
