It’s just a jacket.

Gray. Worn soft by time.

The cuff’s torn. The zipper sticks.

Nothing special.

But it’s been places.

It’s soaked in the sweat of long nights.

Seen more sunrises than it should have.

It’s held the stillness after death.

Been stained with blood, with coffee, with grief.

Thrown in corners.

Pulled back on when the work called again.

It’s felt arms around it when nurses broke down.

Heard prayers no one else did.

Watched as lives came back and slipped away.

It sat silent in the breakroom.

Stood steady in the trauma bay.

Rode beside a tired soul whispering to God.

Waited in the front seat on the way home, worn and heavy.

It was there the day they lost one of their own.

A brother. A healer.

They worked him hard, like always.

But something deeper cracked that day.

No medals were pinned to it.

No honor guard stood for it.

But it carried things no one else could.

It remembers.

The faces. The nights. The weight.

It stays, not because it’s needed.

But because it knows.

Who he was.

Who he served.

And what it means to remain.

Nathaniel Pavkov, D.O., FAAEM, is an Emergency Medicine physician in Ohio