After mist has wrapped us again
in fine wool, may the taste of salt
recall to us the great depths about us.
Denise Levertov (b. 1923)
***
The scent stays. You remember wool was once something alive, just like you. It's been wet before. A storm, a pool, walking side by side with Hutch. His gift that's warmed more than one way.
The black and white's a little frayed on the edges, thin in spots, but still serviceable. It hangs familiarly around your shoulders, though looser than before.
It will dry, ready for use again. The wet scent lingered for days after that storm. This storm has lasted longer, but it holds you like him, dries your face, warms you in the wind. It keeps its counsel.
fin