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I always passed by the opportunity to hug her and hear the crinkle of the washed tan jacket, flourishing with costume pins from her own mother. I always pass by the washed tan jacket hanging on the corner of the splintered doorway, collecting dust, losing memory. I never knew that I would be passing the washed tan jacket, refusing to wear it because I did not sew enough of my memories into its delicate fabric.


There are photographs, positioned in order by year, set up on my grandfathers fireplace. From births, first communions, graduations and marriages. He never took a photo alone. Never without his beautiful wife in which he still exclaims is an angel sent just for him. Maybe I never saw her wings because she would always wear that washed tan jacket.


I am not there. I am not on the fireplace, out of choice. Poor choice. I did not sew my memories and love into the washed tan jacket. I did not hear the crinkle with every hug or smell the scent that will never wash out of it.


But now I pass by it every day. Every day that passed and every passing day.


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