~Cloak of Peace~ Story

Okay!  You asked for it and I shall deliver.  First, let me explain that the name ~Cloak of Peace~ was given to me by a Gather member.  I liked it so much that I decided to use it.  Then when I came across the old photo of the embroidered cloak - well, you can put two and two together and get five just like I do J

The story of the actual cloak is somewhat more interesting.  As long as I can remember, I've always loved capes and cloaks.  Cloaks were not as easy to come by in a fashion sense.  You could and can find them at costume places but going to a haberdashery is another story. 

 When I was in college I was in love with a wonderful Irish man, Patrick.  He was from Dublin and had the most glorious baritone I'd ever heard or have heard since.  His accent made it even more enchanting.  Even my friends drooled over his voice.

Patrick knew of my love of cloaks and capes and also knew the difficulty I had getting reasonably priced and suitably fashionable cloaks. 

During our break after the sophomore term, Patrick returned to Ireland to be with his family.  I was invited to go but due to my mother's hysteria (she always got hysterical when I wanted to do something that was outside her comfort zone) I decided to stay home.  Patrick tried to talk to her but even he couldn't break through her wall of noncooperation.

We corresponded often and in one such letter he sent me this picture of his sister modeling the cloak.  I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and told him so.  I also chastised him for taunting me with that beautiful piece.   In his letter he told me that his sister made the cloak and his mother did the embroidery.  I was more than impressed; I was in awe.

 I got one more letter from him and then nothing.  Needless to say I was very upset and even tried calling him.  In those times it was no easy feat to make international calls.  Alas, I never got hold of him. 

I strongly suspected that my mother had destroyed his letters.  She'd done it before with another man who she was afraid would take her daughter away.  I confronted her but of course she denied it.  Even in the face of my misery she denied any culpability and went into one of her rages.  Of course I let it go.  I was afraid of my mother's rage until well into my 30's and 40's.

The school term started and I returned.  No Patrick on campus.  I tried to stay away from our old friends because I just couldn't deal with trying to explain something to them that was unexplainable.

Move forward another six months.  I returned home at spring break.  While there, I decided to clean out my room of all the extraneous stuff that would never be used by me again.  During my clean out I found a large package stuffed into the far corner of my closet.  I dragged it out.  It had been opened already.  I tore away the paper and found the cloak. 

There was also a letter which had been torn in quarters.  I pieced the letter back together.  It was from Patrick.  In it he explained that he wouldn't be returning to the United States.  The political climate in Ireland had escalated and he felt obligated to his family and his country to serve on the side of right.  He said that it may have been a good thing that I did not go to Ireland with him, the violence and mayhem was terrible.  He had the cloak made for me to remember him until he could come back to the States.  As far as I know he never did come back.

His duty to his country distressed me but I wasn't as upset about that as I was why my mother hid the cloak where I would be sure to find it eventually.  Why didn't she just throw it away?  I chose to think of her actions as a way to save me the pain of his words and gift, though she had no business opening my mail but that, too, was not beyond her reach.  Privacy was not part of her vocabulary.

Even wanting to think the best, I couldn't resist rubbing a little salt into her wounds.  I called some friends and made arrangements to go out for the evening.  There was a concert at the Three Rivers pier and that seemed a perfect place to show off my new cloak.  Mom was home by the time I was leaving for the concert.  I walked out of my room and through the kitchen where she was having coffee.  She looked up and her mouth fell open.  I stood there in my wonderful cloak, holding the pieced together letter in my hand.

I never said a word and when she tried to speak, I walked out.  The next day I went back to school.  From then on all my breaks were spent with my sister and brother-in-law.

The cloak traveled with me for years until it finally  died an exquisite death of wear and tear that would keep the memories safe and secure.