Ella Weigel

My grandmother wore a fur coat with a plush leopard collar on the day she married, its pockets deep for hiding jittery nervous hands. 

I never met my grandmother; she died of brain cancer the winter before I was born. The matriarch of thirteen children and a stubborn, loving husband, she was a god. In her spare time, she quilted and sewed: patient work needing steady hands. 

After her death, my mom and her siblings sorted out her belongings; it was too much for my grandfather to bear. I don’t think he ever recovered from her loss. My mother came into possession of the coat.

Two years ago, my aunt, my grandmother’s oldest, died of lung cancer. I wore the coat the day of her funeral; it was my mother’s idea, and I hadn’t yet understood the significance. Family looked at me and smiled, cried, hugged me, told me how beautiful my grandmother looked in it, and that I looked beautiful too. I felt like a symbol of something greater, and I tucked my sweaty hands into the satin lined pockets. 

I wore it again this past March with the passing of my grandfather: a loss felt deeply, especially by my mother who had dedicated herself to caring for him. Our second debut, this time the coat felt more somber and more understood. Sitting in the front pew, my hands gathered the satin lining and fur underneath and squeezed.