The Coat on the Back of the Chair

Last Tuesday afternoon I came home, pulled off my shoes, and saw the beige coat still lying exactly where it had been: over the back of the chair beside the dining table. I counted. It had been there since the Monday before. Nine days. Some mornings I had added a scarf next to it, some mornings a canvas bag, and the chair just went on carrying my whole week on its back.

The poem below came out of that.

The coat on the back of the chair
since Monday.
The sleeves still keep
the shape of my arms.

I said: tomorrow, I'll hang it.
Tomorrow I was tired.
The day after, too.
The chair did not ask.

The smell of afternoon sun,
of iced milk coffee I spilled,
of a day
I never got round to washing.

Some evenings
getting the coat onto a hook
is already a big thing.
Some evenings
leaving it is fine.

The chair can bear it.
The coat can bear it.
I sit down beside them
and breathe out.

Tonight, let it stay.

My mother called on video just as I was writing the third line. I lifted the phone and she looked around the room through the screen, then stopped.

— Why is your coat on the chair?

— Oh, I'll put it away tomorrow.

— Tomorrow, is it. I remember you said that the day before yesterday.

I laughed. She was not scolding, she was only saying what she saw. But after we hung up I sat looking at the coat a while longer and thought: those nine days are not proof that I am lazy. They are a ruler. They measure the gap between how much I carry through the door each evening and how much strength I have left to put it all away.

I do not think every coat on every chair says the same thing. Some people simply do not like hanging coats up. But when a coat has been lying there for a long time, I know that if I look at it and feel guilty, the guilt is one more thing I have to carry. So I tried looking at it differently: tonight the coat is there, and I know why. If you want a gentler way to look at things that keep staying unfinished, Learning to accept life's incompleteness speaks to exactly that. And for days when you cannot even put away a coat, To myself on the days I cannot be strong sits beside you.

Four lines, ten minutes. No rhyme, no need to be good. The way to know you did it right is that afterwards the object looks a little less like a reproach. The first time I wrote mine, line three came out clumsy, and I deleted it and rewrote it twice. After a week, some people find they look at the pile with less judgment, and some feel exactly as uncomfortable as before. Both are normal. The short version for a busy day: only line four, a single line, typed with your thumb into a phone note.

The easiest way to spoil it is to turn the four lines into a self-audit: "coat, I'm sorry I have been lazy." It sounds kind, but it is still a reproach. Line three only needs to describe. It should not convict.

When to seek professional support

This article is a short poem and a small writing exercise about things not yet put away. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising it will make the tiredness lighter.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• You have been tired for many weeks even after resting enough: get checked first to rule out physical causes
• Very small tasks, like hanging up a coat or washing a cup, feel impossible for weeks
• You feel empty, no longer caring about things you used to care about, for many weeks
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Talking to a professional about this is not making a fuss. It is like asking someone to take a look at a chair whose back is starting to bend.

This article was created with AI assistance.