My Father’s Jacket

The father, who is nearing the end of his life in this world,
gave me his winter jacket.
A black jacket he once wore with style,
on which thick snowflakes piled on cold shoulders,
a jacket that warmed itself by the stove in a soup restaurant.

A jacket with mismatched buttons,
worn through a life marked by crooked paths,
Unable to rest peacefully at the center of the universe,
tossing and turning like a migratory bird that had lost its way,
wandering through unfamiliar lands,
spending sleepless nights in the cold.
So that I may spend my winters warmly,
so that I may button my life neatly and live upright,
my father handed me his jacket,
like an offering of regret.
In the early winter that chills the heart again and again,
wearing my father’s outdated winter jacket,
I briefly trace the worn path of his difficult life.