The first thing I noticed as I slipped my arms into the sleeves, aside from the size, much too large for me, was the smell.
Ancient cigarettes, motor oil, and the distinct scent of someone’s attic wrapped around me with more warmth than the leather itself.
There was nothing in the four pockets, two inside and two out, and the removal of some old patches, or perhaps embroidery, scarred the back.
Thrifted belongings tell stories, and if this leather could talk, I suspect it would tell many.
Soon it will tell my stories, smell of my friends, my closet, my perfume, talk of my lovers and my enemies, adventures and long nights.
And then I’ll pass it on again for some new soul to wonder where it’s been.