9.

Your gray jacket. I bought it for you because the rest of your clothes had become too big. You were cold all the time and needed something comfortable that would keep you warm. I will always remember your gray jacket. You folded over the sleeves so they weren't too long, like you did with all your jackets. You often kept a Kleenex in the sleeve in case you needed it. I miss zipping up your jacket for you. I miss helping to put on your jacket - my attempt at doing something to help because I knew I was powerless over the cancer that was eating away at your body. If I couldn't stop the cancer, at least I could get you a jacket to keep you warm and comfortable. We had to keep a vomit bag in the pocket in case you got sick and needed one nearby. When I would wash your clothes, I would know to check for the kleenexes before tossing it in the wash. I would fold that jacket, feeling and seeing how much smaller it was than anything you had owned before. You wore it a lot because after awhile you didn't have many things that fit you. You were shrinking. It felt like you were withering away. After you left I cried into that jacket. I held it against my face, and I smelled it, and I screamed. I screamed for you and I cried for all the pain. I covered my face in your gray jacket, trying to get as close as I could to you. I wrapped myself in that jacket and laid in your bed, longing to feel your presence. It sits in your dresser now, and every time I'm there I open the drawer to look at it. I run my hand along it, and put it to my face. I breathe it in and close my eyes to see moments of you. I cry a lot. I will never forget this jacket. Just like I will never forget you. I miss being able to zip up your jacket for you.