Kerchief

It felt soft in her grasp, the old kerchief hanging there, in the base of her fur coat. It had been there for quite some time, not much use, but a comforting feeling nonetheless, when she reached in, wondering what was bulging, so tirelessly, in her pocket. Ah. The soft kerchief, waiting to be used. But now? Just a little mini blanket to twist and fiddle in between those silky finger tips, for those lonely occasions... Or maybe for a tear, or for some running mascara when the rain would fall. And yet, outside the venue, with the old rock groove from a band blaring through the blackened windows and no one but a door man to fill the space with as the gentle drops of London drizzle floated and the furry smoke drifted from her wet lips, the only comforting thing, right there, in that moment, was the white fluff, in her pocket, that kerchief, rolling around like little dead rabbits, creating a certain warmth, generated from her rubbing finger tips.

This was the moment, she thought, the moment she would think up something big. Something that would solve all pain and take her away. Far away from here.

But as the blossom of manufactured white-snot-paper rolled and rolled into an endless sheen of nothingness, she also knew, that her thoughts, no matter how wondrous, were useless and forever nothing.

And sixty years on, when her coat had been past onto someone else, maybe a family member or hanging from a rusty hanger, waiting to to be sold for a fiver; some woman would wear it, feel its fur run along her shape. And when the cold would blow hard and she closed the collar tight around her neck, digging her fists deep into its pockets, a familiar yet foreign softness would appear. And there it would sit, that kerchief that had its

mischievous grin,

smile from beneath and

take away everything but

a story it used to own.