I pulled the coat from storage and the seam

I pulled the coat from storage and the seam

was already mended—dark blue thread on black,

uneven, tight in places. No clear dream

of when I did this. No specific track

back to the night, the lamp, the hurry. Just

the puckered cloth where I had pulled too hard,

the loop not knotted—tucked. I tried to trust

my own history. Couldn't find the yard

of thread, the year. The coat still works. It fits.

I wore it out this morning in the cold

without a thought—and then I saw those bits

of blue thread in the armhole, twelve years old

or maybe more.

I didn't count.

I left.