Your jacket isn’t warm enough for the San Francisco chill that has descended upon my day-to-day since your death almost six months ago.  But I keep wearing it.  You used to wear it in the warmer LA nights with babydoll dresses and Doc Martins.  I loved your style.  Your hugs were comprised of skinny arms and a frame taller than mine.  But the warmth came through.  I loved you.  I’m sorry I didn’t stay, that night you asked me to.  I was scared, too.  And when I’m scared I sometimes run.  I was sometimes scared of you.  Your jacket fits me a little differently than it fit you.  But we had a lot in common.  We were getting there.  And now I will grow older without you there, congratulating me on the next milestone, without following me through your own milestones.  I looked in the pockets of your jacket, hoping to find something, maybe a clue as to why you’re gone.  I don’t know if it’ll ever make sense.  But your jacket will wear out because I’m going to keep wearing it.  Hands in the pockets, grasping, trying to stay warm, waiting for the chill to thaw, to find a way out of this grief pocket, so deep…