The Feel of That Paisley Jacket

Robert McDonald

Wendy tagged me in a photo on her Facebook Feed: New Year’s Eve,

early 90’s, a picture I’d never seen of myself, dancing.

I almost couldn’t believe

how handsome

I had been in my golden

thrift-store paisley

jacket. How would my life

have been different, if I had,

in those days, walked through the world with

the confidence and ease

of a beautiful person who knew himself

to be beautiful?

 

I remember the feel of that paisley jacket, smooth at my wrists, just right

on my shoulders, I remember Wendy’s yearly

parties

in a Chicago apartment above

Pop’s for Champagne.

My goofy drunk friends danced

around me, a posse

of laugher and loneliness

and sweat. I didn’t look

in the mirror

and see a heartbreakingly handsome man.

I didn’t know anyone who

would want

to kiss me

at midnight. My youth,

and the youth and beauty

of everyone

dancing

around me?

 

I suppose I was aware of it, the way

you might know

that someone’s blown out

that row

of teacup

candles

on the mantlepiece

just before you entered the now

empty room.