threadbare coat

He often rubbed his nose

as he forcefully explained why one must always be

honest

and rational

and humanist.

I used to look at it and think

it was such a strange one –

not like the Roman noses I favor, and not quite Grecian either,

but more the furrowed ridged nose of an old miser,

a Scrooge huddling tighter under a threadbare coat

calling it luxurious,

refusing to share,

while inside it he grew colder and more alone.

I used to look at his nose and think

it was so strange that I loved it,

that my heart greeted it fondly,

that I always found myself looking for it, as though

I couldn't be sure it was really him until

he paused

in the middle of another argument –

with whom, I'm still not sure -

and rubbed his nose.

Then my soul seemed to sigh with relief. "Oh yes, it's you."

Now

I remember his nose and think

it’s so strange that that’s how I remember him,

rubbing his nose.

And so right, too.

“I've learned some things since then,

I’d tell you if you listened, Scrooge.

For one,

do you know that in South-East Asia, and in European myth,

rubbing your nose means you know you’re lying?

And for two,

you weren't rational.

Did you know it then? Do you know it now?

All the times that your hand tried to warn you

and your nose called you on your bluff,
vestiges of your hidden truths
tugging at the hems of your coat -

that's how I remember you:

trying so hard

to convince me that you were not lying,

even to yourself. And for you,

I tried to love the lies, my memory still greets them fondly,

my heart holds them in compassion:

that tangling shredding coat you wrap around you to keep love out,

you lonely, cold old man.

How desperately I wish I could have warmed and held you,

this girl you wouldn't share with.”