My Dad’s Jacket

I have a photo of my father holding me when I was just three years old. We were Christmas tree hunting in the woods near Mount Lassen and though I don't remember the moment, I've been told that I was crying because I was too cold. In the photo my dad’s thick brown hair is shining in the winter light. He is trying to comfort me, with his strong arms wrapped around my tiny body, warming me up. He’s looking down at me with love, wearing a timeless baby-blue Levi’s denim jacket. This jacket is now my most cherished possession.

My dad died in 2015. Cancer, pancreatic. I was 25 when I lost him. When I tell people, they often say, “That's too young.” I agree. If you've never experienced the death of a parent, it is impossible to describe. There are no words that could hope to convey the depth of loss or the acuteness of the pain. Although time may teach you how to cope, it never goes away.

I took the clothes that reminded me of him most: his old man socks rest in my chest of drawers, his shirts hang in my closet, his tacky ‘70s era wolf sweater–pregnant with memories–sits on my floor. His smell has long since washed out of every article of clothing, except the denim jacket.

Extra large, baby blue, and stained with years of dirt and soil, the outside of the jacket reads like a working-man’s tale. The inside body of the jacket is 100% polyester, made to look like genuine wool. The sleeves are lined with sleek nylon, smooth and cool to the touch.

I once thought I’d lost it. In a rush to get home from a business trip, I left it hanging in a cute garden-walled Airbnb. When I realized what I had done, I wept. There's no way to replace something like that.

My dad was the glue that held my family together. When he passed, we fell apart. Without him around to give his support, I had to learn to guide myself. The many fatherly lessons he never got to teach me slapped hard as I grew into maturity. Experience is an unforgiving teacher, and I learned a lot from my mistakes. 

I wish he could have seen me develop as an adult. Every moment of triumph, and every deep defeat, I wish I could share with him. There are so many friends I wish he could meet. He would have loved the people I’ve grown close to since he left. I wish he was still here more than anything, but I know he would be proud of the man I’ve become. Even without him to guide me, I’ve managed to build a life I love. 

The Airbnb host agreed to ship the jacket back to me, and for that I am eternally grateful. Every cool morning when I put it on to go outside, I remember his smile and his laugh. I feel warm knowing the denim that once wrapped his arms, now wraps mine. I feel like he's close to me, across space and time. 

In the mirror his brow, his beard, and his nose, are all reflected in my own. My wit, temper, and generosity are all prismatic aberrations of the man who raised me. I am honored to be a fractal of the person he was. I know that deep down, part of me will always be that little boy, crying in the cold. And part of me will always be the father holding his son, warming his toes. I am my own father now.

Christopher Tavolazzi is an author, artist, songwriter, performer, and visual storyteller. You can hear his recent album here.