I borrowed my sister's coat in October. Rose is my twin. Was my twin. The grammar still trips me up.
She lent it for a weekend trip I never took. I just needed something heavy on my shoulders that wasn't my own hands.
After she died, the neighbors came with food. I still have Mrs. Kowalski's casserole dish, green with a chip on the rim. Returning it means standing in a doorway, being seen.
The coat hangs on the back of my bedroom door. Navy wool, three sizes too big on me. Pockets deep enough to disappear into.
Sometimes I wear it to the grocery store. The sleeves cover my hands. Nobody knows it isn't mine.
I think about returning it. But to who? And what would I wear on the days when getting dressed already feels like too much exposure?
The dish and the coat. Two small thefts. But they keep me tethered to a world that still has doorways and neighbors and lending. Some days that's the whole fight — just staying in the loop of borrowed things.