Your old coat still hangs by the door. One sleeve is torn where you caught it on a nail. I keep meaning to fix it. Winter keeps coming back. The pockets hold bus tickets and a bent hair clip. There is a grocery list in your careful block letters. Milk, bread, apples, call me. I fold it smaller every time I read it. I wear the coat when it’s too cold to think. It smells like smoke and cheap soap and rain. People say it fits me now. I pretend not to hear what that means.