The Line They Wrote for Me

They gave me a test I could not fail, which is how I knew it was not a test.

Sit in the chair, they said. Say the words. The room stands, you stand, the crown goes on, and you are ours.

The words were written years ago by people who loved me. They were kind. They fit like a glove I did not remember putting on.

I sat. I read them twice. They were true the way a coat is true: warm, and there was someone else inside it.

"You wrote this," I said.

"We wrote it so you would never be alone."

The room was already rising, all those faces, the sound of chairs like water.

I put the paper down. I did not say the words. I said the thing underneath, which was short and badly phrased and mine. I said it badly. I said it out loud.

The room sat back down. Nobody clapped. Nobody left.

And I have never been that afraid, and I have not once wanted the coat back.