The coat had been hanging in the back of my closet for years. I don't even remember when I last wore it.
I put my hand in the pocket and found a crumpled piece of paper. A grocery list in my brother's handwriting.
Two forty-three in the corner, his total. Milk, bread, dish soap, a six-pack—the same things he always bought.
We haven't spoken in six years. Not since the fight over Mom's house.
The pool opened today. I could hear the kids yelling from the parking lot of the hardware store.
I thought about calling him. Told myself I would. But I didn't.
My work gloves have a hole worn through at the thumb. I've been meaning to buy new ones for a month.
I folded the list back into my pocket. Maybe tomorrow I'll call.
Maybe tomorrow.