My mother had two red coats. One extremely light winter coat, and another even lighter. She never wanted to be too hot, but she did want to be seen. I have both of those coats now. I love that no matter what I’m wearing, I can throw one on and look pretty good. People don’t see that maybe I still have paint on my pants, or maybe I forgot the belt. Maybe my shirt has lost the ironed crisp. As I rush through the grocery store, post office, or simply down the road — all they see is this beautiful flash of red — and I am strengthened in my mother’s blur.
These coats mean the world to me, but I was given a gift even more priceless. She first taught me how to make it with nothing at all. From the ever beige of a basement condo, a used car, a small salary, and only enough hope to fill a pocket, she taught me how to live a beautiful life. She taught me that the outer meant nothing, unless the inner was strong.
We took our dim yellow feathers to the mall frequently. Some might say we left with nothing. But that wouldn’t be true. Even when our hands were empty. No bags in tow, we were filled with joy. “Wouldn’t you rather look good in the outfit, than be able to afford it?” She asked the question often. The answer was always a laughing and resounding yes, as we soared out the revolving doors.
Half of the cardinals are given a red coat at birth. I do not envy them. Love gave me mine, thread by thread, long after I was taught to fly.
