The boxes are stacked against the living room wall. Tomorrow the truck comes at seven and I still haven't taped the kitchen ones shut.
I found her coat in the back of the hall closet, the camel one with the bone buttons I could never button as a kid because the sleeves swallowed my hands.
I tried it on to see if it still looked ridiculous on me. It didn't. It fit. The shoulders landed exactly where they should, the cuffs hit my wrists, and for a second I couldn't breathe.
The jury summons has been on the fridge for three weeks, held up by the magnet from the pizza place that closed in 2019. I'll deal with it at the new address. Everything is in transit. Even me.
But the coat smells like the inside of her Camry in December, like peppermint and cold leather and something underneath that I can't name except to say it's her.
I've been wearing it for an hour now, sitting on the bare kitchen floor at one in the morning, not packing anything. I keep pressing the sleeves to my face.
She always said I'd grow into it. I didn't think she meant like this.