It was the winter of 1933, my grandmother’s coat of many colors
Was hand stitched with loving care. It didn’t matter that the other
Children laughed and called her patches, she wore her coat with
Pride. Every stitch was perfect and the embroidery was perfection.
Grandmother’s coat was frowned upon and the butt of many jokes,
But grandmother stood her ground, for she knew the hand that
Stitched her coat was the hand that washed, iron, cleaned, cooked
And baked all day. The years have passed and so has my sweet
Grandmother. Her coat hangs in my closet, along with my other
Coats, and in my eyes, there’s no coat more beautiful then the
Coat of many colors.