The Beautiful Thing About Old Winter Coats

There's something special about the first snow. It forces you to dig back in your closet to find that old winter coat you haven't worn in months. You see, the first wear of the season is a conscious thought: pulling it off the hanger, seeing if it still fits.

But if you’re like me, you don’t remember the last time you wore it. It was just another, cold, March or April day. And even if you do remember, you probably didn’t know it would be the last time, until it ended up being the last time.

It’s like remembering the last boring lunch you had with that friend who unexpectedly passed away. It’s not that you’d forgotten, but just that there had been no reason to remember it. 

I’ve found a way to revive those ordinary moments, though. The secret is in the coat pockets. Anything that’s left – they’re like breadcrumbs. They lead me back home. 

It might look like nothing, but piece by piece, I get a better glimpse of who I was the last time I wore this coat. 

Take that crumpled money order receipt from my March rent payment. 

I remember at that time hearing something about a virus, but it was all news to me. I was busy trying to realign my own little galaxy, and I forgot the rest of the world was still spinning.

I remember when my landlord asked me to order another copy because the bleach smeared all the numbers when he tried to disinfect it. I remember how much a simple thing as that made me giggle.
I love that even then, I could still laugh.

There’s a receipt for a book of postage stamps.  

In a world where everything would slowly live on the screen, a physical letter felt more important than ever.  It was something to feel, touch, and hold onto. 

It was as close to a hug as I could get. 

Take the receipt from the birthday gift I bought my mom. 

I remember how I paid for overnight shipping because I needed to make sure it’d get there in time. I remember thinking how mad she’d be when she realized I paid more for the shipping than the gift, but I didn’t care. 

I wasn’t sure if she would even like it, and I remember being surprised when she actually did. She wasn’t happy about the shipping, but I knew she deserved it. 

There’s a receipt from that time I visited the local plant shop.  

I remember feeling so behind, like it was already too late to get seeds started. Still, businesses were closing left and right, and I remember making it a point to go there instead of Home Depot.

I remember the woman who rang me up and how I told her it was so good to see her, another human being, and how I wished her well. 

We were all so scared – I remember that.

I remember planting the seeds and realizing that if all goes well, my apartment could in no way house 72 fully grown plants, but I decided that was a problem to figure out another day.

I remember how excited I was to watch the seedlings grow. I remember how I audibly welcomed them to the world and told them how happy I was they were here.

Despite how hard things were, they were a constant, comforting reminder: Time will still pass; life can be created anew.

You see, as those forgotten memories flood back, they show me the parts of myself that have survived the change of seasons.

And, maybe they weren’t forgotten. Maybe just buried. Or asleep.

But that’s why I always love digging through the pockets. It's like a resurrection.

Which is funny, because it's winter: 

Everything is hibernating, not resurrecting. 

Except for me.