“Robin repaired this himself. The summer before he left. He was terrible at sewing.” Her eyes filled. “Get inside. Before you catch your death.”
I followed her into the warmth. The fireplace crackled in the corner.
She made tea without asking if I wanted any and set two cups on the table.
“Robin repaired this himself.”
She sat down across from me, and for a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then she reached across and picked up the photograph again.
“He has your eyes.”
She set the photograph down carefully between us.
“It will take time,” she said.
“I know.”
“But I suppose you’d better start from the beginning,” she said, her voice softer now.
“It will take time.”
I hung the coat on the hook by her door before I left that night.
She didn’t tell me to take it with me. And I didn’t.
Some things belong where they finally find warmth.
My mother didn’t wear that coat because she was poor.
She wore it because it was the last thing that ever wrapped around her from the man she loved.
I spent half my life ashamed of it. Now I understand: some things aren’t rags. They’re proof.
