I did not cry anymore. The tears had run dry somewhere on Saginaw Street. Mostly, I just felt a deep, heavy hum of gratitude.

I brought the brown corduroy jacket back upstairs. I hung it on the wooden peg by the back door, right where it belonged.

The other six coats are still down in the basement, packed neatly in a cedar chest. I think I will keep them there for a while.

It is November again now. The sky is that flat, cold gray color that Walter always said meant snow was coming. I went down to the corner store this morning to get some milk. When I walked back through the mudroom, I reached out and ran my hand over the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. It was cold to the touch, but it felt solid.

I am seventy-seven years old now, and my own memory is not as sharp as it used to be. Some mornings I forget where I put my glasses, or I stand in the kitchen wondering what I was about to do. But I know I will never forget Walter. I have his coats. I have his stitches. And if I ever get lost, I know exactly who to call.